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A FAST $100,000 IN MANHATTAN! Malcolm Morgan 28 





COME IN FIRST! Murray Coles 36 


SUICIDE Kirk Miles IS 



BARDOT'S BABY! Jean Feral 10 


"ROMANCE" WITH JFK! :. Jay Collins 22 



IN HER OWN WORDS! Oliver Reynolds 32 



PHONE SWINDLE Hal Clement 27 







STUDENT RIOTS Garrett Harlowe 24 

HUSH-HUSH, published bi-monthly by Bash-Hush Magazine, Inc. Office of publication 
Charlton Building, Derby. Conn. Entered as second class matter at the Pest Office at Derby 
Conn. Second Class Postage Paid At Derby, Conn. Price per copy 25c. Subscription 51.50 
yearly. Vol. 7, No. 36, Sept., 1961. Copyright 1961. All rights reserved. Printed in U.S.A. 
Not responsible for loss or non-return of unsolicited manuscripts and photographs. 


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■ ■•':■', 

Two years after winning Hollywood Oscar 
and turning down $5 0,000-a-yeqr con- 
tract, Diane Varst sits in her apartment, 
lacking bathroom, kitchen and phone. 

Waitress, apple-picker, 
companion of senile wom- 
en, a bride at 15, twice 
divorced at 19, a star at 
20, a beatnik at 2 1— that's 
the inside story of Holly- 
wood's strangest outsider. 
This HUSH-HUSH report 
tells you what's next for 
Diane Varsi— and that's 
something this oddball ac- 
tress from Way Out doesn't 
usually know herself! 

She gave up the make-believe of Tinseltown to dev 

son, her studies and poetry, Now, practically pen- 

liless, Diane might have to return to the world 01 illusion and fakery again, to pay for the necessities of everday reality. 

THE YOUNG woman was squat- 
ting in her sparsely furnished room, 
sandwiched between a dentist's office 
and a broken-down ladies" room, on 
the second floor of a ramshackle 
building in San Mateo, California, 

A frail barefoot figure in corduroy 
slacks and a pitch black cardigan, 
she was unkempt like a Nature Girl. 

The visitor found her face bare of 
all make-up, her fingernails un- 
polished, her skin greasy with neglect, 
her ash-blonde hair cascading down on 
her stooped shoulders, covering most 
of her forehead. 

In her blue eyes, looking at the 
stranger with a frightened squint, 
suspicion was mixed with fear. 

Acne spotted her cheeks and the 
bridge of her nose. A dirty band- 
aid covered a small wound on her 
right index finger and she was strum- 
ming constantly at it as if trying to 
work off a bad case of nerves. 

She squatted on the floor In front 
of a tiny white table on which stood 
a silver crucifix, a much-fingered 


rosary, a white shell, a plaster angel 
and a religious book. 

Locked in that bare room with this 
young woman was one of Hollywood's 
quaintest tragedies and strangest mys- 

For this fidgety female hermit in 
her beatnik pad was all that was left 
of the glamor girl Hollywood had 
once acclaimed as "the find of the 
decade" and described as the "new 
Ingrid Bergman." 

She was Diane Varsi — the woman 
on Hollywood's conscience. 

It was only a few years ago when 
Diane skyrocketed to stardom with 
a single role, playing Lana Turner's 
petulent daughter in Peyton Place. 
Her success was no accident or the 
result of any Hollywood magic. She 
had all the ingredients of a great 
star. She stayed at the top with Ten 
North Frederic and eventually Com- 

Then she quit! 

All of a sudden she broke out o£ 
a seven-year contract and, with 
$10,000 in her purse (all that was 
left from her earnings) she fled like 
a failure from Hollywood. 

"This town has destroyed my soul," 
she said, vowing: 

"I shall never return!" 

Today, there is hardly a penny left 
of that $10,000. Diane, with her 
four-year-old son, lives rent-free in 
her grandfather's house in San Mateo. 
She subsists on bread and carrots and 
milk, in a barren flat that has no 
kitchen, no bathroom, no curtains 
and no telephone. 

Her own isolation is well-nigh fool- 
proof. But Hollywood is still chas- 
ing her. There is a $25,000 prize 
on her head, you could say — a bonus 
offered by Jerry Wald, the producer, 
in return for her return. 

"It would be worth every penny 

of it," Wald says, "for Diane is fresh 

and original. She doesn't act like 

(Continued on Page 39) 

Vice Town, Germany . . . 



"Join The Navy And See The World," the posters say. 
Join the Army — and you're apt to see the sin-ingest city 
of the Continent, both Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into 
one little hotbed of vice, called Baumholder, Germany. 
There are about 30,000 American soldiers at a nearby 
NATO base, drawing close to 83,000,000 each month in 
pay. And the girls, the sharpies and vice lords from 
miles around have settled down in Baumholder for the 
dedicated task of taking the GIs for every cent they 
have on a sexy sleigh ride that includes every form 
of vice imaginable. . . 


EVERY DAY is S-Day in Baumholder! 

A stinking little town in West Ger- 
many, hidden some 100 miles be- 
hind the cosmopolitan hustle of Frank- 
furt, Baumholder's census lists 5,800 

Yet it is an "American place" in all 
but name— the kind" of "American 
place" that went out of style in this 
country with the closing down of 
Phoenix City. 

It's a town of garish honky-tonks 
whose neons light up sullen, rustic 
nights. Screeching juke boxes fill 
everything with the din of hot jazz 
and sensuous, sentimental German 
ditties. Brash babes swagger in the 
streets, squat on tall stools, fondle the 
boys at the tables. 

The stench of stale beer and dub- 
ious booze contaminates the air of 
smoke-filled rooms where young men 
and women flop soddenly over dirty 
tablecloths or drool noisily at un- 

it's SEX day, SIN day, SMUT day, 
SUCKER day— take your choice of any 
of the sordid and sinister words that 
go with the letter. 

Little Baumholder wallows in sin 
and sex. 

It's a latter-day boomtown of putrid 
pleasures and alcoholic antics . . . 
of illicit love ... of illegitimate child- 

Ifs a town of big brawls, of broken 
illusions, of crimes of passion. It's 
Sodom and Old Tombstone rolled in- 
to one. 

It is "American," so to speak, be- 
cause stationed in a huge nearby 
camp is the 8th Army, one of the 
major components of the NATO forces. 
This one is made up entirely of men 
from the States. 

The GIs from the NATO camp ca!! 
it "Mudholder," and not only because 
it's swampy with muck on rainy days. 
The mud of Baumholder is every- 
where—in its unpaved streets, and al- 
(Contimied on Page 5-f) 

inoiaer migm no 
lonely GIs they'l 

ft happened when ske received 

heart-stopping letter demanding 3# 

million francs — or her 

would be kidnapped* For several 

weeks the sex symbol of 

screen engaged in one of the most 

dramatic episodes of her career — ■ 

yet not a single camera was tMrning e 

and not a single word leaked out 

to the world! Only HUSH-HUSH 

was able to dig i 

the creeps who 

know what it's like 

like a mother* 


IT'S BEEN THE best-kept secret on 
She Continent— untill now! 

Net one word lhas been wnifflem ©if 
whispered about Si 

And thafs fantastic because this 
secret was a sensational, dramatic 
nttenrrpft to kidnap the baby son of 

none other than Brigitte Bardot, the 
fiery French bombshell who uses up 
men as though she's afraid the world's 
going to run out of them any day! 

The case would have made head- 
lines all over the world, and maybe 
it will now that you are finally getting 
the truth. 

SIVE INSIDE REPORT of an abortive 
attempt by a kidnap gang to snatch 
the gurgling son of France's No. 1 
sex star! 

It is a rare case when such a bomb- 
shell event can be kept quiet— parti- 
cularly when it involves the little tig- 
ress who put sex on every tongue and 
a gleam in every male eye. 

The stars of the world have a tough 
time keeping things secret— but one 
made it in this case. 

But, as so many times in the past, 
HUSH-HUSH is able to reveal the com- 
plete, fantastic story in this amazing 
scoop. Proving once again that HUSH- 
HUSH (and its sister magazine TOP 
SECRET) are the two leading maga- 
zines in their fieid-far ahead of the 

competitors in exploding exclusive 
TNT news. 

(Note to our readers: Check and 
see how many of our competitors will 
reprint this scoop of ours in the weeks 
and months to come— as they have 
snatched up most of our other scoops 
in the past!) 

This one happened a few months 
ago— in the middle of January, to be 
exact. The bare-faced, bare-bottom- 
ed Brigitte was a bundle of nerves. 

And well she might be— wrestling 
(what else?) her eternal entanglement 
of directors, producers, press agents, 
husbands, lovers, ex-lovers and soon- 
to-be lovers. 

The pouting passion-pofs problem 
is obvious: She has a tough time tell- 
ing one from another. But with such 
an endless cast of characters, who 

It may look like a snap to you— just 
lolling around on those rumpled 
sheets, posing and pouting before a 
camera and the devouring eyes of a 
couple of dozen leering stage hands. 
(Continued on Page 41) 

Roger Vadim (right) is BB's ex-hub- 
by — and he might be her next one. 





jM^^^^^^B^M mi 





A NEW TYPE of magazine has 
crawled out of the sewer and invaded 
the newsstands. 

The rags are seldom put on dis- 
play in daylight when the normal citi- 
zen is on the street. 

But in the dead of night, when the 
sex-sick creepsters begin to prowl, 
these vest-pocket size periodicals start 
popping out on the stands like pim- 

From the covers you might think 

these midget mags were hody-huild- 
ing guides. 

But look again — if your stomach 
can take it. 

For these mucking male monthlies 
cater to no one else but SWI5HY- 

Who the hell do these Pansy-Dans 
think they're fooling? 

They may call these dirty, disgust- 
ing little rags MANORAMA, MAN- 
1FQUE OR F1ZEEK. But they could just 


as welt call them THE QUEERSVViLILE 

Take only a quick look at the con- 
tents of these panting, perverted pub- 
locations. Leaf through a couple ©f 

You would think that a hint of nor- 
mal sex was worse than catching ct 
social disease! 

Of course, there are a few Begeto- 
mate he-man photos. You'll spot en 
few guys who look like real he-mem* 
those sweet and strain simpletons 
who spend hours each day develop- 
ing their bulging biceps. 

(What the hell do they do wFth a IB 
those muscles, anyway?} 


That's the big coverup! 

Thafs the OUTRIGHT LIE! 

For these greasy, muscle-ripping 
he-men are nothing but a front for 
what these little magazines are alD 
about. The cast of characters stack 
up like a tooty-fruity after-dinner 

The REAL feature of these miser- 
able, murky magazines cere coy boys 
with seductive smirks on their ever- 
so-sweet and enticing faces. 

Oh, they have a certain amount of 
male equipment, all right— sometimes 
hidden behind a delicately poised 
knee or a piece of furniture. 

But otherwise they are nakedS 

Straight nude. Like man, ifs raw 

And most of them are neither he- 
men or the so-called "sporty" type. 
They are simpering swishes who 
swivel their hips into the kind of poses 
you'd expect to find on a pinup' caD- 

{Continued on Page M) 


They usually feature a 99% 
nude, many-muscled man on 
the cover, with a few similar 
pictures inside. They are SUP- 
POSED to encourage 99-pound 
weaklings into trying to be- 
come 299-pound monstrosities. 
But the majority are nothing 
more than carefully designed 
peep-shows, aimed straight at 
the Pansy Set that is blossom- 
ing out at such a shocking rate 
from coast to coast. 

HUSH-HUSH pushes aside 
the wall of filth to expose 
the rotteness of these mush- 
rooming magazines — not only 
because they are so rotten 
themselves, but also because 
they help encourage the dan- 
gerous multiplication of these 
sexual freaks throughout the 

Manhattan, where folk-singers are chased out of the parks, 
has for years tolerated the most open street corner of homo- 
prostitution in the world — where 8th Ave. meets 42nd St. 


■ . 

These two ads appeared in ^^* M - ta ---«. 

some of the mags that Hush- 
Nosh exposes in this article. They are typical of the trash 
tfhat caters to homosexuals under the cover of "Body Build- 
iirrcg''-',. and which is becoming shockingly commonplace on 
neighborhood newsstands. These pansy periodicals should 
tee cleaned out — before they dirty up the whole nation! 

Except— believe it or not— these are 
'boys/' At least thafs what they seem 

tfo be— maybe it takes an expert to 
veil If a; Esc- takes one to know one. 

The whole thing fs not only nauseat- 
ing. It is down right dangerous! 

Because the whale damned fruit 
cake— no matter how you slice it- 
caters to the LOWEST INSTINCTS of 
the I imp wrist lads in their steadily- 
nncreaslng numbers. 


How much will decent men and 
women put up with? 


You might expect such drivel to 
be sold under the counter at some 
cheap bookstore, or traded around in 
back alleys. 

But today some newsstands are 
crowded with these sex-sick, sordid 
publications. They are openfy display- 
ed right next to national magazines 
and sold right out in the open— after 
dark when the lights go on. 

As you read through the amazing 
captions and the leering come-on ads, 
you begin to think that THE FEMALE 


In fact, thumbing through doaesss 
of these rags in their current issues 
turned up exactly ONE photo of & 

And she was a cowering, curly- 
haired cufie in a leopard-skin bath- 
with a dog collar around her neck 
and a leash in her mouth— the other 
end of the leash held by a grinning, 
muscle monster with oil-smeared chest 
and rippling thighs. 


If this isn't the sickest perversion, 
then read on! You haven't heard any- 
thing yet. 

Grab hold of a porcelain bcism, 
Jason— because . . . 

It's plain to see that a portrait of a 
busty, leggy lovely would shock the 
limp-wrist lads right out of their silk 

What they want to swoars over are 
these mincing male models draped 
coy and cute — bare-boftomed on a 
rumpled bed. 

To them, these naked Nancies care 

Times Square, in the heart of New York City, is another mating market for 
queer callboys. The (heater marquee accurately labels the district it's in. 

the greatest thing an earth! 

Sure enough, there are among these 
magazines a few— fust a few— that are 
legitimate body-building publications. 

But most of them— and there are 

more each day— are nothing more 

then brazen promotion for the girlish 

(Continued on Page 61) 


Heavyweight boxing has degenerated into a tug 
of war between a mediocre champ and puff ed-up 
second raters. But there's a fighter around, 
however, who insiders say could put the bang 
back into boxing if only given a chance. His 
name is Sonny Liston. Why hasn't this fighter 
been given a chance? HUSH-HUSH takes you 
on an eye-opening tour of the shadowy under- 
world that manipulates fighters — for the "Mob's" 
profit — and shows why the best damn heavy- 
weight around isn't worth a pizza crust if he 
can't get into the ring with the Champ. 


THERE SS A mystery punch in 
the making, specially consigned for 
Floyd Patterson. 

It is confidently expected to make 
a chump out of the champ as soon 
as it gets launched. 

Compared to the power-blow in 
this masked mitt, Ingo's vaunted 
mighty right, they say, is but a gentle 

Then what are we waiting for? 

Why isn't Patterson exposed to the 
punch that is expected not merely 
to uproot the champion, but to give 
the whole world of boxing a badly 
needed shake-up? 

Sonny goes down from force of his 
own powerful right efr Eddie Mctchen. 


The trouble is that the celebrated 
haymaker is concealed in a fist that's 
considered socially unrespectable, de- 
spite its evident pugilistic respectabil- 

It's the fist of one Charles Liston, 
a big, dark kid who is strictly from 
Missouri — from St. Louis, to be pre- 
cise. He's better known as Sonny 
Liston to his fast growing legion of 

Not even listed on Ring magazine's 
famed "world rating" roster a couple 
of years ago, Sonny spectacularly 
moved into No. 3 place on Novem- 
ber 19, I960, among the 10 top con- 
tenders for the heavyweight crown. 

He was still behind Floyd. He was 
also behind Zora Folley, Arizona's 
avenging anvil. But he was already 
well ahead of Eddie Machen, Britain's 
hopeful Hank Cooper (now slated to 
fight Floyd ) , Roy Harris, the prepos- 
terous punk from Cut -and -Shoot, 
Texas, and the rest of a sorry lot of 
heavyweight impersonators whose 
pugilistic talents exist mainly in their 
handlers' imaginations. 

Today Sonny tops the list of all 
contenders. He's second only to 
champion Patterson. Many say he 
would be the real king of the ring 
if given an opportunity of proving 
himself where the count really counts. 

Listen to the consensus! 

Said Rocky Marciano, the Old 
Blockbuster, who makes no bones 
about his regard for the present in- 
cumbent as something like a card- 
board champ: 

"Sonny's left jab is like a bludgeon! 
He's certain to take the title as soon 
as he's given a chance!" 

Astute trainer Teddy Bentham 
chimed in: "I wouldn't bet oo a 

grizzly bear against Liston." 

A still stronger opinion was voiced 
by veteran manager Charles Rose. 
Winking knowingly, Charley averred 
that the throttle hasn't been opened 
on Liston. "Wait," he says, "until 
they really turn him loose," adding 
wistfully, "if they ever do." 

Heavyweight Sonny Liston presents 
a distinct problem for the entire cauli- 
flower set — for fighters as well 
as managers, for trainers, promoters 
and boxing commissions. Even for 
the press. 

Managers do a disappearing act 
when his name pops up as a prospec- 
tive opponent for their own laddies. 

Sportswriters are hesitant in pen- 
ning his praise. Boxing commissions 
— and especially the New York Com- 
mission — are fidgeting nervously as 
they look forward to the day when 
some decision will have to be made 
about Sonny's fitness as the top con- 

Promoters and sponsors shudder 
when they think of possible public 
reactions to Liston's championship. 

Rival heavyweights recoil from 
his fearsome skill. 

It isn't really any fear of his proven 
talent that is keeping Sonny out 
of the big contest. As a matter of 
fact, all true friends of the boxing 
industry are rooting for him to bring 
back the good old days with one of 
those hard-hitting performances that 
have been conspiciously absent since 
Rocky's retirement, and especially 
since Joe Louis's halcyon days. 


To be blunt about it, boxing never 
was in worse shape. Its dismal con- 
dition compelled even Lou Stillman 
to sell his celebrated gym, moaning: 
"We got no fighters left here! We got 
a lot of yellow mutts, and who cares 
about them?" 

Over this assortment of yellow 
mutts hovers the specter of Sonny 
Liston. But the 28-year-old, hand- 
some, recent resident of Philadelphia 
poses problems, to say the least. 

His unpleasant past, 2S Ted Carroll 
put it, and his unsavory managerial 
associations throw up barriers that 
not even Sonny's golden fists can de- 
molish — not just yet. 

"Problem children are nothing new 
to pugilism," Ted said. "Remember 
Sam Langford? Or Harry Wills, for 
that matter? 

"Sam was the victim of the down- 
right refusal of every champion of 
his era to meet him in the title bout, 
altho he was clearly the most formid- 
able challenger. 

"Wills was blacklisted mainly be- 
cause he was black. Even that champ- 

Sonny hears Senate testimony indi- 
cating that a large share of his 
earnings goes to crime Syndicate. 

ion of racial equality, the late Al 
Smith, was chary about giving Harry 
his day. While many others, assembled 
behind Jack Dempsey, did their best 
to keep the crown on a white head." 

Now, it seems, Liston is doomed 
to become the third member of a 
trio on boxing's conscience. But there 
are a number of rather significant 

Both Langford and Wills were para- 
gons of virtue. There never was a 

Frankie Palermo, one of the top brass of 
the fight rackets, is believed to be in 
back of Sonny's manager, "Peppe" Barone. 

whiff of scandal about them. Old 
Sam was a gentle soul. He was 
handled by a highly respected man- 
ager. As far as Harry Wills was con- 
cerned, in all the long history of the 
ring, no fighter led a more impeccable 
life than the late "Brown Panther of 
New Orleans." 

The same cannot be said for Sonny 

Of course, he hasn't the racial 
climate of bygone years to contend 

s with "'Ms Ecy" Ser.ny t'stcn, as a noi 
ien| by which Sonny bought ool his manager 

ry puis her seal on 
interest in himse'f. 

And behind "Blinky" Palermo you'll 
always find Frankie Carbo, the Mr. 
Big of the Mob's interest in boxing. 

with, as had Wills. But he poses a 
string of other dilemmas that have 
to be solved before he can be given 
a chance to jab at the coveted plum. 

Sonny was literally born into ad- 
versity. Then, during his formative 
years, he resolved the temptations of 
his unwholesome environment mostly 
by yielding to them. 

There were 13 kids in the Liston 
family at St. Louis, and never enough 
food to go around. At an early age, 
Sonny was set adrift to shift for him- 
self. He did the shifting as best as 
he could, but even his very best wasn't 
too good. 

This child of St. Louis* worst slums 
inevitably gravitated toward bad com- 
panions and, before too long, had to 
pay the familiar forfeit for his pre- 
fab fate. 

Sonny became the terror of his 
hometown's cops. Hardly a week 
passed without young Liston becom- 
ing involved in some larcenous pur- 
suits, petty at first, grand in the end. 

His antics and escapades merged 
into a stiff term in the reformatory 
and eventual confinement in what can 
charitably be called an "institution." 

Liston's sordid background isn't too 
rare among boxers, in particular — or 
athletes in general — who have had 
to face similar childhood conditions 
with their usual pitfalls. Even Babe 
Ruth was in real need of rehabilita- 
tion. It taxed the efforts of a fine 
priest at Baltimore's St. Mary Institute 
to straighten out the Babe before he 
could be turned into the idol of mil- 
lions he subsequently (and deserved- 
ly) became. 

Sonny Liston was similarly for- 
tunate in meeting his selfless Samari- 
tan, who did his best to set him 
straight. He was another Catholic 
priest, Father Francis X. Stephens, 
(Continued on Page 48) 

Distraught Eddie stood hap- 
lessly by as they wrapped the 
critically ill actress in bllemlfe* 
ets and took her fr© foospIfloB. 



Constantly at her bedside, Eddie looks 
over some of the mail that poured in 
from his wife's many admirers. 


written about luscious Liz Taylor's 
terrifying flirtation with death. 

The frightening news about the 
near-fatal illness of Hollywood's dark- 
haired sex goddess was blasted all 
over the world in blazing headlines. 

The papers ran photos of the pain- 
racked beauty on a stretcher — the 
famous hills and valleys of her much- 
publicized body shrouded in a cheap 
grey ambulance blanket. 

Reporters painted a horribly vivid 
portrait of her bosomy, tortured gasps 
for breath, the parched, petulant lips 
parted, but unspeaking — a portrait 
printed in a hundred languages, for 
all to see. 

But there was another — unpubll- 
cized — rendezvous with the Grim 

And now that, happily the full- 
blown bundle of velvet voluptuous- 
ness has made her miraculous re- 
those tragic days in the London Clinic 
can be told! 

The raven-haired beauty's fight with death 
rocked the world with screaming headlines. 
But NOT A WORD WAS SAID about her 
singer-actor husband, who was undergoing 
the most agonizing moments of his life 
behind closed doors. Now HUSH-HUSH lifts 
the veil of secrecy to reveal exactly what 
happened on that DREADED DAY when 
worshipping Eddie cama within a few scant 
breaths of having beautiful Liz lose her 
life — and his, too! 

Let's go back to the fateful, fear- 
ridden Monday of March 6. For two 
seemingly endless days the stricken 
beauty had been dallying with death. 
Now the doctors were facing the 
dazed kid who had tried to fill Mike 

Todd's shoes (among other things), 
and they gave him the devastating 


The baby-faced crooner had been 

Still weak from her near-fatal illness, Liz is helped to her seat by Bob Hope end 
Burl Lancaster after winning an Oscar for the first time in her long career. 


curls lay limp and tangled, tied back 
with a piece of gauze. 

An electronic respirator was hooked 
to a tube inserted in a hole cut into 
her ivory throat, to give her the air 
she could not seize herself. 

A doctor pressed his chilling stetho* 

rz Taylor (above) as she look- 
ed in the role of a dally-for-dough doxy 
in "Bulterfield 8". When she first saw her- 
self in this film, Liz threw her shoe at the 
screen and shoutec*. that "It stinks!" But 
-she felt better about it (right) when the 

lying sleepless on a cot beside the 
once lithe form of his lovely Liz. 
The cream-colored room had been 
stripped of flowers, on doctors' or- 
ders, for fear the pollen might ham- 
per her painful gasps for air. 

On Saturday, the courageous girl 
had begun to rally against the mon- 
ster pneumonia. 

"It's a miracle," bubbled the boyish 
baritone. "A miracle." 

But now — only two days later — 
another desperate struggle was rag- 
ing inside the ravaged body of lusty 
Liz. Anemia had set in. In room 
224 of London's most luxurious hos- 

pital, seven doctors huddled over the 
magnificent body straining against 
the lacy confines of a silken night- 

The tempestuous Liz lay motionless, 
strapped about with the cold, im- 
personal tubes and apparatus of mod- 
ern medicine. 

Blood was being forced into the 
waxen skin of one rounded forearm. 
Nourishment flowed into a puncture 
in one bruised, delicate ankle. 

The smoldering violet eyes that had 
danced and charmed were glazed and 
unseeing. Her natural flush was gone. 
The luxurious mane of silken black 

scope against one full breast and 
listened. He shook his head. 

Behind him, cowering helplessly 
in the background, a . trembling, 
pathetic figure saw, gasped as if 
struck, and ran blindly to the door. 

Eddie, the second-string saloon so- 
prano who moves in the shadow be- 
hind his gorgeous wife's spotlight, 
stood in the doorway, dazed, unseeing 
and cried: 


His eyes were like those of a caged 

animal. His rasping cry echoed down 

(Continued on Page 38) 

Medico* Bombshell... 

For Those Who Fizzle 
When They Should Sizzle! 




At least 50% of the American males, and 80% of the 
females, suffer from impotence or frigidity during 
what should be the best years of their lives. Today 
doctors know that in 9 out of 10 such cases, the 
trouble is not due to illness or aging — but t© 
psychological barriers. And hypnotism is proving 
amazingly effective in clearing out these road- 
blocks on the delightful road to love! 


YOUNG Mr. X was a total loss 
as far as the ladies were concerned — 
what you might call a Sad Sack of 

But he was a dud who badly wanted 
to become a dad. He was madly in 
!!©ve with bis boyhood sweetheart 

and would have long since married 
her, except for this one impediment. 
Embarrassed by the evident deficiency 
of his sexual prowess, and fearing 
the worst on his wedding night, he 
abandoned all thoughts of wedding 
bells and gave up his belle. 

So what happened in the end? 

Today Mr, X Is happily married* 
to she woman lie loved. He is the 

proud father of three towheaded boys. 
He's performing in the marriage bed 
with the skill and fervor of Casanova. 

Such miracles don't just happen. 
They are made. 

Obviously something was done to 
turn X's frustrating impotence into 
gushing vim and vigor. 

Mr. X was wise enough not to take 
his apparent sexual inadequacy for 
granted. He sought professional help. 
After consulting a number of medics 
who could do nothing to remedy the 
Situation, he was referred to a promi- 
nent New York psychologist named 
Milton Kline. 

Dr. Kline specializes in the repair 
©f sexual insufficiencies. 

His tool is hypnosis! 

Hie brilliant psychologist subject- 
fed the distressed young man. wander- 
ing aimlessly m his barren wasteland, 
m a psychological third degree. And 
during the first interview under hyp- 
nosis, it already became evident that 
Mr. X dreaded sex because of a certain 
experience during his college days. 

It seemed be had become involved 
(Continued on Page 58) 



The shocking blonde set Continental reporters on 
their heels with her eyebrow-raising tale of a "romantic 
interlude" with the former Senator from Massachu- 
setts. But it didn't take long to find that the self-styled 
artist was merely doing a smear job with her 
over-sexed, off-colored oils! 

When Purdom cut fhet eeke with Ali- 
eio Ddrr in 1957, he didn't know 
wheat a stew he would soon be in. 


AN ATTRACTIVE actress-painter- 
little-known except to the Cafe So- 
ciety set that jets between Palm 
Beach, the Riviera, Rome's Via 
Veneto and Manhattan's Ei Morocco, 
has been raising eye-brows on the 
Continent with tales about her alleged 
"romantic interlude'' with President 
Kennedy when he was still "the Sena- 
tor from Massachusetts". 

Alicia Darr is the blonde name- 
dropper's name, and she's the 

estranged wife of movie actor Ed- 
mund Purdom, For years, Jet Set- 
ters have wondered which was worse 
— Alicia's acting or her painting. 
Now they know that NEITHER has 
ever produced anything as cheap and 
vicious as was created by just her 
little old overheated imagination 
when she had the nerve to give inter- 
views all over Europe about her al- 
leged former "engagement" to JFK. 

Needless to say, the whole thing 
was a smelly publicity gimmick — 
the most fanciful smear job that the 
self-styled painter ever splashed to- 
gether on her life-size canvas. 

"It was a long engagement", boast- 
ed rhe starry-eyed Miss Darr, making 
Picasso look like a piker in the art 
of purposeful distortion. 

How this pampered paintress ever 
managed to convince Continental 
news hounds to buy her outright 
phony story is one question insiders 
have been unable to answer. 

Nor has anyone, until now, dared 
to expose the ego-loaded extrovert 
for exactly what she is: 

A publicity-hungry phony who has 
tried to make headlines by dragging 
the ex-Senator down into the mud 
she likes to muck around in. 

Purdom is innocent of any part 
in the sordid mess. He's been trying 
to get rid of angling Alicia for some 

The playful Purdom has been kick- 
ing up his heels in greener pastures 
and he wants to make their marriage 
scene one that's strictly out of Splits- 

But the brazen blonde is hanging 
on for love or money. And since 
the loving — with Purdom — ran 
out a long time ago, the divorce is 
strictly a cash-and-carry proposition 
with Alicia. 

You'd think Alicia would have 

enough on her mercenary mind to 
keep her busy without spreading lies 
about her alleged "romance" with 

Her poor painting is rivaled only 
by her poor taste. 

At the very same moment she was 

panting about her "romance" with 

(Continued on Page 45) 



■ .■:.;.■, :■ ■ ■ ■■ 






AT 10NG 1AST, offer 16 dynamite- 
packed years of coming closer and 
closer each lime, Ihe lid finally blew 
off one of the most disgraceful "va- 
cation spots" in the United States-a 
whole town whose biggest business 
comes from cleaning up on the yen for 
booze and broads by TEENAGE KIDS! 

The lid ALMOST blew off, we 
should say. Big as the explosion was 
♦his year, it was just a pop in the 
bucket compared to what it will be 
next year— or perhaps the year after 
-if something isn't done in a hurry 






Each April college kids from all over Ihe land head for 
Fort Lauderdale, Florida— which has hecome a sorl of 
finishing school ... for sex. You read about the riols, the 
dancing in the streets and the crowded beaches, and the 
papers made it look like just clean fun by healthy kids 
letting off steam. What you DIDN'T READ about were the 
wild orgies on the beaches at night ... or about Ihe 13 
and 14-year-old girls from good families who were 
forcibly raped one night during the "good, clean fun". . . 

to make this money-hungry commun- 
ity put an end to its yearly Bacchanal 
for Boysl 

We refer, of course, to Fort Lauder- 
dale, Florida. The little Gold Coast 
city of sun, sand and sex, where 
those student riots took place a few 
months back. 

You heard ail about it, of course. 
Everybody did. How some 8,000 col- 
lege cut-ups, from all parts of our 
lovely land, ganged up on Lauder- 
dale cops during the Easter vacation 
season and almost turned the town 
into a shambles. 

At least, you THOUGHT you heard 
all about it. How the educated asses 
pelted cops with empty beer bottles. 

tike real wild, man. 

But what you DIDN'T hem was a 
hundred times worse! 

Like real rape, man! 

Thafs what we said— RAPE! 

In not a single one of the barrage 
of reports that came out of Fort Lau- 
derdale during those student shenan- 
igans last spring was there a single 
word about the REALLY DISGRACEFUL 
things that went on. And what you 
read about them here in HUSH-HUSH, 
you ore reading for the first time any- 


Sure, they told of how the kids 
ganged up on the cops because they'd 
closed the unlighted beaches ("ro- 
mance beaches" the kids called them) 
to the public after dark, (Where the 
hells a guy gonna take a babe, 







How «hey laicE down in the middle 
of U.S. Highway A1A, refusing fo let 
traffic pass. How they overturned one 
ear and damaged another— a police 
car— with Fourth of July bombs. And 
how it took more than 350 caps, fire* 
men, members of the Florida High- 
way Patrol, and officers from neigh- 
boring counties, with nightsticks, high 
pressure hoses and blaring loudspeak- 
ers—plus threats of tear gas— to put 
ihe punks in their place. 

Ofaj st was a miserable mess, ell 
■right. But through all the reports 
there was, nonetheless, a sustained 
note of tolerance, even humor. 

'Must clean, fun-loving kids, letting 
off a little steam, /knowl" 

"Boys will be boys!" and all that 
sort, of thing. 

This theme song pervaded the re* 
ports for one simple reason. The Fort 
Lauderdale folks wanted it to. Not 
only did they want the alt-too-ap- 
parent riots glossed over— but there 
were other, not-so-public goings-on 
that they didn't want mentioned at 

Yes, indeed, whet you heard ahoajf 
She Fort Lauderdale busi-ups mis year 
was quite sensational. 

:■■ ■■'"" -■■. 

. ■■ ■■ 

class juvenile delin- 
■e free to enjoy Fort Lauderdale's sunshine again. 


Wild orgies of rape, with, in some 
cases, many of the drunken, sex- 
crazed students raping the same girl, 
one after another! 

Rape of the worst, the most life- 
scarring kind. Because the girls raped 
by the "clean-cut young men" in 
their bestial passions on the dark 
Fort Lauderdale beaches were GOOD 

They weren't college girls who, like 
the college boys, were in Fort Lauder- 
dale because they were expecting— 

spring in this "quiet little Florida 

Some 16 summers ago, Fort Lauder- 
dale was just a speck in the eye of 
motorists rolling along Route A1A 
between Miami and Palm Beach. With 
a population of about 17,000 souls, 
it was so dull a place that cars sel- 
dom stopped there at all, unless they 
were out of gas or Dad had to "wash 
his hands" at the comfort station. 

Today Fort Lauderdale is one of 
the most thriving resort towns in fhtt 

man— what with the motels packed 
10 to a room, and even the park 
benches crowded with kids who 
didn't have anyplace to go?) 


They even told of an 18-year-old 
chick, from up Pittsburg way, who'd 
been pinched (figuratively speaking, 
of course— you know what gentlemen 
those Florida cops are!) and fined five 
bucks for "open profanity". (She'd 
had a few choice words, it seems, for 
the lawmen who packed her loud- 
mouthed boyfriend off to the pokey.) 

Yet nowhere— but nowhere— did 
you see one word about RAPE. 

Rape of not just one girl— but at 
least 10! 

many of them, at least— and would 
have been very disappointed if they 
didn't get, a red hot time on the siz- 
zling sands. 

Such girls deserved whatever they 
got— because they got what they were 
asking for. And most of them got 

But the girls who were raped were 
not sex-seeking college co-eds. They 
were the decent daughters of decent 
people who had come to Fort Lauder- 
dale for a decent vacation. For the 
sun, the sand, the swimming— the nor- 
mal tourist pastimes. 

And every one of these girls who 
were grabbed and violated by some 
of the "fun-loving" college youths 

Fantastic? Maybe so. But thafs the 
true Fort Lauderdale story. Thafs the 
sort of thing that happens every 

area. In fact, many of the dally-for- 
dough dolls who are rolling their own 
in Miami Beach these days got their 
START in Fort Lauderdale. 

And many of them are ex-college 
co-eds who just forgot to go home 
when their vacations were over. 

Fort Lauderdale began being a 
binge town back in the late '40s. 
Around that time it was a sort of fad 
with college kids to head for sunny 
Florida for their Easter holidays. Most 
headed for Miami. But, finding Fort 
Lauderdale in their path, and just a 
few miles from Miami, many stayed 
there instead. Mainly because, in 
those days, prices were somewhat 
lower in Lauderdale than Miami— a 
situation that has been long-since 
rectified by the alert Lauderdalians, 
needless to say. 


Soon word got around the nation's 
(Continued on Page 51) 


While TV pitchmen have been pressuring 


suckers into having a phone in every damn 

.... ... . i • «• THERE'S THIS G 

room of the house, this electronics whiz mick - a m yst ery 1 

Imagine that you 
amajig hooked up to 

has merely wanted to get his Wonder Box b 7 t ^ a ed i D 6 ° 

that doesn't look 

into every bookie joint in the land. It's a bu A LL'6FAsuDDE: 

• • J i .. . . ■ J.L i" J. AS L0NG AS THI 

rmg-a-ding gadget that takes the sting out lech 

» * * 3 It's "collecc," all 

phone company does! 

of long distance calls — a gadget that ^ other words 


phone experts still can't figure out. When 
they beg him to Tell and Tell how it works, 

This is Walter Shaw, i 

all the man says is, "Sorry, we are not ™mor * the magic b 


THERE'S THIS GREAT little gim- 
mick — a mystery box. 

Imagine that you have the thing- 
amajig hooked up to the old squawk- 
box invented by Don Ameche. 

It's just a small 6 by 8 inch gadget 
that doesn't look very impressive, 
but .... 


It's "collect," all right. But the 
phone company doesn't do the collect- 

In other words — the guy who 
(Continued on Page 47) 

permitted to give out that information!' 

that made the phone 
company feel hung up. 

his calls in a Miami ja 

K i^ - 


The mink-coated eutie with the British accent seemed out 
of place compared to the usual run-of-the-mill floozies 
charged with "loitering for purposes of prostitution". 

it it It was the dizziest off-beat 
act that was ever staged 
in the passion pits of 

it it First, there was an old duff- 
er who had a bigger passion 
for antique beds than for a 
hot young hussy in one. 

it it Second, there was his 
tempting teenage wife, 
who had something for the 
boys — at a price. 

it it Third, there was the aging 
boy wonder of British TV, 
who was going to make the 
girl a star — aftrom $30 to 
$100 per sex packed per- 

it it Then there was the cop 
who caught the doll's act 
at one of her undress re- 
hearsals — and rang the 
curtain down on that 
bouncy bundle from Britain 
—but fast! 

When arrested, Maria claimed she was 22. Later she changed 
it to 1 9 — thus saving herself from a nasty old jail sentence. 



a-sizzle with sin-tillating possibilities. 

It was 11 p.m. in Manhattan, the 
prowling hour for passionate play-for- 
pay dolls and their lustful pay-for- 
play mates. 

A luscious, leggy blonde— buzoom- 

ing out of a sequinned gown— tinkled 
across the floor of a Sixth Avenue 
bar. Her un-underweared undulations 
were followed by a pack of hungry 
eyes. But the busty broad had HER 
eye on a likely-looking prospect in 
the telephone booth. 

The saucy sextress sidled right up 
to the squawk-box and turned around 

a couple of times, to give the bug- 
eyed bucko a quick look at her ample 

The big brute grew hot under his 
hat and promptly dialed two wrong 
numbers. Sure, he was out for a 
night on the town. But this particular 
John was not about to be led astray 
by a free lance filly. 

He already had & VERY HOT NUM- 
BER m mind! 

He dialed again and this time he 
made his connection. Only the voice 
that answered was cool and not par- 
ticularly promising. It had to be an 
answering service, of course. 

What else would you expect, Buster? 

Thi« Bittle chick wasn't exactly a 


'"'May I speak So Maria" Movefmy?" 
he said. 

"Miss Novotny isn't in," the eooB 
cookie cooed. "But she is expected 
back soon. If you'll leave your num- 
ber, I'll have her cai!" 

The hulking husky didn't have Bong 
to wail Five minutes and a couple of 

sips irate a boiHermaker Brater, the 
phone rang. 

This time the voice was anything 
but co©S— and the tongue was veddy, 
weddy British. 

This is Maria/' came the wire- 
sizzling whisper 

"Hello there " gasped the love-hun- 
ejry feSgj boy, practically crawling right 




dulging in a half-hour of heavenly 
homework, the eager John pulled ou* 
a badge and put the snatch on one 
of the most promising "career" girls 
in the V-Doli Hall of Infamy. 

What the hell was this? 

This was a plain old-fashioned 

Not a John, baby. But JOHN LAW! 

And the luscious lend-lease lovely 
who thought she was in for a roll in 
the hay was being PINCHED— but in 
quite another way. 

All in all, it was a bitter moment- 
guaranteed to break a frustrated flat- 

Maria Novotny, being escorted to a New York jail by a 
vice squad detective (above), was known as Manella 
Caper when (right) she was married to antique dealer 
Horace Dibben a year earlier in London. Dibben, 
old enough to be her grandfather, was there to put 
jp bail when cops caught up with Maria's capers. 

into the mouthpiece. "Say, I'm a friend 
of Phil's and he's told me ALL about 
you. What say we get together for 
a drink?" 

"It's rawther late," the Cockney 
cutie teased. "And I'm awfully busy 
BUT . . . All right. 1 think I can 
squeeze you in. Lefs say between 
1 1 :30 and midnight." 

Decked out in a derby and looking 
every bit the Dapper Dan— all 6'4" 
and 240 pound of him-the eager 
beaver wasted no time rounding the 
corner of 55lh Street and heading for 
number 140. 

The name on the door said "Tow- 

And— sure enough— the exotic tom- 
ato who flung open the door was a 
tower of tantalizing temptation. 

In fact, in certain areas, she 
seemed to be building towers of her 
own. And it looked like scaling the 
peaks would be no trick at all. 

But the hoity-toity temptress didn't 
even smile. Closing the door behind 
him, she pursed her poutiful scarlet 
lips, tossed her golden mane and 
without further fanny-fare bluntly in- 
formed the gent. 

"The price is $30." 

The John must have looked doubt- 
ful, because before he could pull out 
his bankroll the torso-twisting teaser 


had swivel-hipped right out of her 
party dress! 

She had a body that made $30 a 
bargain just for the un-cover charge! 


The rambunctious broad stood 
there, a cloud of filmy underwear 
caressing her ankles, and for a mo- 
ment it looked like the curtain-raiser 
on a real jazzy evening. 

But then it happened. 


Instead of reaching for the bustiful 
British "exchange student," and in- 

foofs spirit. All that fancy flesh and 
nothing to do but .... 

The dutiful dick, plaindothesman 
Thomas Flood, threw open the door 
of the plush pad and hailed two col- 
leagues who'd been covering the 
caper at the key hole. 

This was a custom-styled cutie, all 
right— cool as they come. While the 
cops stood around — twiddling their 
thumbs, of course — the statuesque 
blonde draped a gown around her 
hustling hips, slipped into a $3,000 
mink coat and tucked her hoir into 

« towermg fur hat 

You would have thoueM frae ram- 
bunctious British broad was going to 
ra coronation instead of heading for 
She pokey. 

Naturally, the dicks made a grand 
Soup of She luxury sin-suite, and from 
She back room flushed out a rather 
embarrassed gent who reluctantly 
identified himself as one Harry Alan 

Towers, a pudgy-faced, chinless 
mora of 40, sputtered indignantly that 
Hie was a British TV producer and 
writer. The way he told it. Towers 
was practically the Mike Todd of 
ilfoe Buckingham Palace set. 

The man, who looked more like a 
tiddly winks champ than anything F 
else, kept frying to pass off the eve- 
nings fit-jinks as a comedy of errors. 

Maria, the delectable bundle from 
Blackpool, was a model and would-be 
actress, he said. Her strip was all part 
©f the act 

At the age of 17, Maria was posing as London's 
"Spaghetti Queen". That was before the spicy 
dish turned to a less tasteful occupation. 

"Mr. Towers brought me here to go 
on the stage/' Maria prompted from 
the wings. 

Maria, of course, was her own 
best press agent! 

Even the weary lawmen could see 
the haughty, high-priced handout 
wasn't just any ordinary vixen of 
easy virtue. 

Cops brush up against some brassy 
broads in the line of duty, but this 
haughty hooker was one of the class- 
iest cuddiers-for-cash they'd ever 
submitted to a third degree. 

The cops may have enjoyed the 
audition. Bui they didn't buy the 

Towers was booked for putting on 

a bad show by maintaining e dis- 
orderly house and importing women 
for immoral purposes. Maria was 
charged with loitering for purposes 
of prostitution. 

Down at the jailhouse— in the spot- 
light, at last— Maria just wouldn't stop 
taking curtain calls. She insisted on 
listing al! her credits. 

The frisky filly said she had been 
thrilling audiences— stag, of course- 
one at a time, three times a day at 
$30 to $100 a performance. 

The Cops got quite a charge out of 
Maria. Who wouldn't? 

Her roommate, the doll-faced Tow- 
ers, wos fascinating, too. He came to 
(Continued on Page 42) 


.. ■; ;:j;. 

Here for the FIRST TIME is the 
DOCUMENTED complaint of Er- 
rol Flynn's Lolita! Now it can be 
told, with the teenage sexpot, her- 
self, spelling it out: How the old 
rake (to quote her) "knowingly, 
intentionally, wilfully, harmfully, 
offensively, shamefully, wrong- 
fully, recklessly, maliciously, un- 
lawfully, illegally, torturously and 
with immoral intent and purpose 
. . . led her along the by-ways of 
immorality, accustomed her to a 
frenzied life of wild parties, sub- 
jected her to immoral debauchery 
and sex orgies. . ." 

THE FRIGHTFUL last secret of Errol 
Flynn's persona! tragedy was not 
feyried with the man! 

It survives in the files of New York 
Supreme Court, in one of the strangest 
documents ever to reach a judge's 
^ U ils an eyewitness report! 

Et spells out in awesome detail the 
climactic debauchery of Flynn's sin- 

* studded life, the raucous rake's final 

U is the story of the wayward girl 
who shared with FEynn those last 
fluonths of perversion and ecstasy. 

It is the personal confession of 
Beverly Aadland, the teen-age strum- 
pet to whom Flynn left nothing except 
this Eegacy of irreparable notoriety. 

HUSH-HUSH had access to that 
document which was left to gather 
dust on a musly shelf. 

In possession of a photostatic copy 
of those sensational papers, it is 
now possible to relate here in breath- 
taking detail a sordid episode in 
Flynn's life that was never before 
cleared up in full and was, indeed, 
obscured after his death. 

When Flynn died so suddenly on 
October 14, 1959, the fantastic "facts" 
of his hectic love affair with his 
child-mistress were blown up in big 
type on the front pages of the tab- 
loids. Yet despite the gallons of 
printer's ink wasted on the spicy melo- 
drama, the real magnitude of his 
debauchery came out merely in broad 
faints and smutty innuendos, in sly 
comments and half-true revelations. 

* The little girl In the big drama was 
caught on the hook. 

She did not know how to behave in 
She clinch. 

In one breath she would demurely 
say "St was nothing but a pla tonic 
friendship/' only to concede in her 
next breath: 

"I am pregnant with Errol's child." 

Cruel pressures were exerted on 

Shrewd lawyers descended upon 
Beverly Aadland, hell-bent on entrap- 
ping her in sinister schemes. 

Gossip-mongers besieged Beverly, 
squeezing the last ounce of publicity 
and notoriety from the "case." 

Her own prodigal mother, a Way- 
ward and confused woman whose 
brain was sodded by too much alco- 
hol, muscled in on the act. She proud- 
ly paraded the sins of her daughter, 
then turned around and sued maga- 
zines that dared question her off- 
spring's virtue. 

In the commotion, the truth got 

Gradually Beverly herself emerged 
from the untidy ruins of her young 
life's grand affair, wearing an an- 
gelic mask on her face, hoping to 
rehabilitate herself as an actress. 

In the end nobody could be sure: 
was this a cruel hoax or a true bac- 
chanal? Was it a stunt— or sin at its 

Today there need not be any doubt 
about it any longer. The truth is out, 
the whole truth and nothing but the 

It is a $5,000,000 story, so to speak. 
For the facts came out in a desperate 
last effort to shake down the Flynn 
estate to the tune of that astronomical 


Beverly, who claims Flynn introduced 
her to stronger stuff, changes to tea. 

Whatever Flynn left, and nobody 
really knows the exact size of his 
estate, is temporarily administered by 
his long-suffering, much-jilted wife,, 
Patricia Wymore Flynn, and two at- 
torneys, Louis Grossman and Justin 
M. Golenback. 


Several attempts were made by 
people representing Beverly to obtain 

[ere are the HUSH-HUSH photostats 
of that sensational document in which 
Beverly Aadland calls a spade a 
spade — and Errol Flynn just about 
everything a cad could possibly be 
called — os she accuses him of having 
taken advantage of her in several do- 
zen different ways, including simple 
seduction. The document was issued 
as part of her suit for a mere $5,000,- 
000 against the Flynn estate. 

Pat Wymore, Errol's legitimate widow, 
has the money Beverly's trying to ger. 

a cut from the estate. After all, it 
was claimed, she was far closer to 
Flynn in his last years than a Pat Wy- 
more, and certainly closer than 
Messrs. Grossman and Golenback. 

There were threats and intimida- 
tions, and hints of reprisals, unless 
a settlement was made. But the tem- 
porary administrators of the estate 
stood fast. They weren't willing to 
part with a red penny in general, or 
to pay any balm to Beverly in parti- 

Last summer, when Miss Aadland 
was in New York hoping to negotiate 
deals for a "come-back" in show busi- 
ness, she acquainted a bit more un- 
scheduled notoriety with her antics. 
She also acquired something that 
sounds more respectable: What the 
law calls a General Guardian. 

This guardian angel came in the 
person of an elderly New York at- 
torney named Howard F. Trussel. 

The question was no longer whether 
Beverly had a legitimate stake In 
the Flynn estate. The question now 
became how to construct a case that 
would help her to a share. 

It was then decided to turn the 
table on the late Errol Flynn by ex- 
huming his monumental sins. 

Lawyer Trussel had to start from 
a disadvantageous point of depar- 
ture. In bygone days, Beverly would 
have had a quasi-legitimate case, 
for there were laws on the statute 
books that took a rather dim view of 
a 50-year-old man's carnal interest in 
a 15-year-old lassie. 

In addition to the purely criminal 
aspects of such cases (statutory rape 
and all that jazz) there was the pos- 
sibility of suing for damages by 
claiming breach of promise or out- 
right seduction. 

However, the law was so much 
abused that the State of New York 
widely decided to eliminate it from 
the statutes. In view of that elimina- 
tion, lawyer Trussel could not very 
well claim damages under a law that 
was now null and void. 

So he decided to guggle the words 
of sin, and create a law all by itself 
under which he could attack the Flynn 
estate with reasonable hope of biting 
into it. 

Trussel thus tried to make out a 
case for Beverly by exposing in grue- 
some detail the debauchery to which 
Flynn had subjected her, a hapless 
and helpless minor, and to ask the 
familiar balm for the virtue of which 
Errol had so wantonly deprived her. 

Now, this could not be just hinted 
at or skirted or handled with kid 
gloves (or even asbestos mittens). It 
had to be attacked frontally, leaving 
nothing— absolutely nothing— to the 
judge's imagination. 

This decision on the part of Howard 
F. Trussel, Esq., gave birth to that 
incendiary document on file at New 
York's Supreme Court— the brief di- 
rected to the Hon. Samuel H. Hof- 
stadter, the hapless justice thus called 
upon to compensate Beverly for her 
misspent youth. 

In preparing his brief, lawyer Trus- 
sel pictured Errol Flynn as a hedonistic 
monster who debauched blonde Bev- 
erly and scarred her with a misshapen 
and battered soul. Flynn had ruined 
her life, Trussel wrote in his literary 
masterpiece, and intentionally led her 
along the byways of immorality, "ac- 
customed her to a frenzied life of 
wild parties, subjected her to de- 
bauchery and sex orgies, taught her 
to react with wanton disregard for 
conventions and the feelings of other 

(Continued on Page 43) 

The Wages Of Sin Are— An Oscar! • 


She always played the "good" girl, and 
nobody could remember what she look- 
ed like 30 minutes after the movie was 
over. So Shirley took off her gingham 
dress and put on something else — SEX. 
The girl who sang so sweet and looked 
so pure in "Oklahoma" became lus- 
cious rather than just lovely, and her 
aura of virginity vanished into the air 
— when she so realistically portrayed 
a brothel inmate in a slip and with lots 
of bosom showing in "Elmer Gantry". 


Shirley seems to feel she found her niche as an ac- 
tress when she played a slut in a slip in "Elmer Gantry". 


Jones, with pig-tailed hair and pink 
cheeks, played the All-American girl 
from Smithtown, Pa., who sang "Oh, 
What A Beautiful Morning" in the 
film, "Oklahoma," 

Today the same sexy sweetbun — is 
the proud owner of an Oscar for a 
best supporting role. She won it for 
her part as a play-for-pay babe in 
"Elmer Gantry." Which proves once 
again that in order to succeed in the 
movies — to become a big star — a 
"good" girl has to play a bad broad. 
It's a repeat of the old story that 

Shirley and husband Jack Cassidy are 
expecting their second baby this (all. 

"nice guys (and gals) finish last," 

In "Elmer Gauntry," the Jones girl 
for the first time pouted, primped and 
panted through the role of a flashy 
floozie, a reel prostitute. And so well 
did she play a pay-doll, she made 
it pay-off with an Oscar. 

Saucy Shirley told this reporter 
about her shift in gears — and careers 
— from goody-goody roles to play-in- 
the-hay portrayals. 

"There's a bit of bad in every good 
girl," the sextress said, "and the pub- 
lic just loves to discover it." 

The peaches-and-cream heroine of 
"Oklahoma," who switched to those 
ultra sexy roles as easily as she fills 
her duds with some eye-popping sta- 
tistics, is, by the way, not the only 
film filly to win an Oscar by turning 
to the world's oldest profession. On 
camera, of course. 

Even Liz Taylor finally won an 
Oscar, getting it for her role as a 
delicious dollar-daisy who spread good 
cheer around New York in "Butter- 
field 8." 

And the day before the Oscars were 
given to the film floozies, a pair of 
steaming stage stars got "Tony" 
awards (Broadway's equivalent of the 
Oscar ) for their dally-f or-dough roles 
in stage plays. 

(Continued on Page 46) 

Love that man! Shirley and the Oscar 
she wen for portraying a shady lady. 


(Continued from Pnge 201 

the silent corridors. Friends who 
wasted for news of Liz's desperate 
battle were horrified. 

Before their pitying eyes, a nurse 
took the microphone mangier by the 
arm and led him to an adjoining 

For days the weary warbler had 
fought to hide from the grim reality. 
He had hovered about in no man's 
land, on the brink of desperation, 
not eating, not sleeping, trying des- 
perately not to think. 

As Liz's strength ebbed, he hoarded 
his for the taxing moment when the 
shell that had been a bombshell lapsed 
into consciousness, her luscious full- 
blown lips beneath the oxygen tent 
mouthing the pitiful question: 

"Am I going to die?" 

Then it took every ounce of baby- 
faced guile for Eddie to smile and 
hide the hideous possibility. 

Now Eddie-boy paced the floor be- 
fore the watchful eyes of the nurse 
and prayed. In the hushed chamber 
next door lay the magnificent body 
he had known and worshipped. The 
one for which he had forsaken all 
others (including ex -wife Debbie and 
two offspring). 

The pasty-faced crooner's brow was 
shiny with sweat, his eyes glassy, his 
cheeks and chin grizzled with a week- 
end's growth of beard. 

At that moment, the doctors re- 
teased their grave misgivings to the 
press and to the world. The torrid 

His fears confirmed, Eddie stood 
up and calmly said: 


The nurse grabbed his arm, and 
pushed him gently back to his chair. 

Then she called in some of his 
friends and warned them of the sallow 
singer's desperate vow. 

Now it was right out in the open 
— something these same friends had 
feared all along. 

Eddie was not to be left alone — 
not for a minute. If Liz should die, 
they knew full well he was prepared 
to follow. 

The curly-haired crooner had dedi* 

cated hss -whole existence to trailing 
in the wake of the irresistible Liz — 
running her errands, smoothing the 
stones in her path, satisfying her every 

Tending to a tempermental star 
can be a full-time job. There are 
the hairdressers, the fashion houses, 
the contracts, the bills, the lawsuits, 
the tantrums, the passions. 

Without her, Eddie's life would 
be empty. Here was a man READY 

Needless to say, his pals never left 
the frantic Fisher alone for a moment 
after his wild outburst. 

They went fishing in his pockets, 
hunting for pills he might try to 
swallow. Every possible precaution 
was taken to head off any grief-driv- 
ing efforts he might make to take his 
own life. 

Then the medical miracle occurred. 

Gallant, gorgeous Liz pulled her- 
self back from the cold clammy 
caress of death. Life crept back into 
her lithe limbs. 

Her bosom rose and fell in a steadily 
stronger rhythm. She was hot on the 
recovery trail, Eddie's desperate fears 
faded faster than a gambler's bank 

Paler and thinner — but luscious 
as ever — Liz came home to Holly- 
wood cuddled in a wheelchair. The 
radiant film queen was trailed as al- 
ways by her faithful pup of a hus- 

Only one flaw marred that other- 
wise breathtaking bundle of beauty — 
a ghastly scar, 2 inches long and a 
quarter of an inch wide, right where 
her kissable neck joins the delicate 

With the fire and passion of the 
old Liz, she described the details of 
the disfiguring incision that saved 
her life. 'Doctors put an English 
penny (about the size of a half dol- 
lar ) over the hole. So when I wanted 
to talk, I just pressed on the penny 
to close the air space. 

"I guess I'll just have to wear high- 
necked diamond chokers to cover the 
scar," she said with a wicked smile 
and a wink at her ever-loving Eddie. 

And that's how she faced them 

Oscar night sis Santa Monica — he&d 
high, eyes brimming, scar-concealed, 
wasp-waist and every curve revealed 
m a tantalizing gown. 

Eddie watched with adoring cocker 
spaniel eyes as she clutched another -_ 
man to her bosom — Oscar — and he 
wasn't the least bit jealous. 

Hollywood was whispering, of 
course. It wouldn't be Hollywood '^. 
if the green-eyed goddess, Jealousy, 
wasn't always hovering in the wings. 

It was ironic that Oscar had found 
his way into Liz's hot little clutches — 
on her fourth nomination — for 
, "Butterfield 8", a lousy film which 
the prettily prudish Liz didn't want 
to do at all. 

She had taken one look at the 
script — a bedtime story if there 
ever was one, the lurid tale of a love- 
hungry tramp — and she tossed at 
right back in the producer's face. 

She walked out on MGM, her bee- 
stung iips in a pout, saying the pic- 
ture was "too dirty." She wanted it 
completely rewritten. What could 
mere men do? The script WAS re- 
written as the Queen Bee demanded. 

"I still think it stinks," said the 
lusty brunette bombshell. And she 
refused to slink around before the 
camera unless her Method-less actor 
husband got a juicy part in the flick, 

"Actor" Eddie got a part — his 
first and, so far, his last. 

Strangely enough Liz wasn't the 
least bit prissy about "Suddenly Last 5 

Summer," a smoldering peepshow of 
lust, violence, cannibalism and per- 
version. And "puritanical" Liz man- 
aged to make her undulating way 
through the homosexual swamp of 
"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" without an 
outraged whimper. 

If anything, Liz as the frustrated 
"Maggy-Cat" really deserved the Os- 
car. But then it was Hollywood that 
was pouting like an outraged virgin. 

The press had painted Liz as a 
scarlet woman for luring the in- 
nocent Eddie away from the clutches 
of his wife, Debbie. Hollywood, where 
the sheets are hotter than those in 
a highway motel, cast Liz in the role 
of "heavy." They wouldn't have let 
her get the Oscar if she had found 
one for sale in a hock shop. 

Even when she finally did receive 
the long-overdue award — and despite 
the highly emotional drama of her 
nearly fainting from weakness as she 
went to the stand to pick it up — ■ 5 
someone watching it all on TV in a 
Manhattan bar said bluntly: 

"She should certainly have thanked 
TORS in her acceptance speech. With- 
out them she never would have wonj " 

How low and dirty can you get? 


(Continued from Page 7) 

anyone else or think like anyone else. 
That's what comes across the screen." 

There is a contract waiting for 
Diane in one of Wald's top drawers, 
guaranteeing her $50,000 a year and 
holding out all the familiar promises 
of glory. But Diane sullenly says: 

"I'm low on funds and I may have 
to go to work soon, but I want only 
enough money to be free of money. 
Do you understand? A quart of milk 
costs 24 cents, a loaf of bread costs 
31 cents. I need that money but I 
have no need for more." 

Then she added, in her cool and 
tight, crisp voice, as an after-thought: 
"It isn't that 1 don't like Hollywood. 
It's just that I don't want to act any 
more. And that is final." 

It was the epitaph of an actress, 
with shades of Sunset Boulevard over 
Diane Varsi — at the age of 23 — at 
the height of her career. 


Used to all sorts of eccentricities, 
some phony, some real, and to its 
own assortment of off-beat types, even 
Hollywood cannot make out Diane, 
or offer a satisfactory explanation for 
her conduct. 

"She's a screwball," is how they 
dismiss her at movieland parties when- 
ever her name crops up, and they 
make her the butt of bad jokes. But 
even the cynics shudder as they think 
of her. Deep down in their dehy- 
drated Hollywood souls somehow they 
feel her strange grudge is a stigma 
on the "set-up" — the heat of her 
mute wrath is searing them. 

"Good riddance' ' was what Joan 
Crawford had in mind when she pin- 
pointed Diane as genuine star-material 
but blasted her for her way of life, 
for her bare feet and blue jeans. 

"If you're untidy in dress," the 
queen mother of Hollywood said, 
"you're untidy in performance. 
Glamor was what has made this town 
and I think one of the greatest in- 
gredients of glamor is neatness." 

Gary Cooper, her co-star in Ten 
North Frederick, said: 

'The trouble with Diane is that 
she folds herself up in a world of 
her own, retreats from getting to 

know people and refuses to let others 
tell her what to do. She's a goof- 

They have all sorts of theories and 
explanations for her weird behavior, 
and Diane isn't entirely unwilling 
to join the big debate. 

"I wish I knew," she recently said, 
"why I give every one the impres- 
sion that I am an odd-ball. To a 
cat, a dog is a mean and vicious 
enemy. Yet to his master, the same 
dog is a kind, gentle and faithful com- 
panion. I've been told it's wrong to 
speak my mind and do the thing I 
want to do no matter how much I 
shock people, 

"They say I'm a screwball," she con- 
tinued her soliloquy," but 1 do not 
feel like a screwball and do not think 
I am a screwball!" 

Why, then, do people regard her 
as one? 

"Because I am one of the few truly 
genuine persons in a bogus world, 
I don't try to bluff myself out of 
my troubles. I do not conceal my own 
confusion and the troubles I am ex- 
periencing, just trying to grow up. 
In my heart I know that I will never 
reach true adulthood." 

There you are, left adrift. Diane 
isn't much help in trying to clear up 
the great Varsi mystery. 

And yet, if you dig deep enough 
and consider Diane Varsi, not as a 
Hollywood extravaganza, but as a case 
history in all its symptoms, you can 
arrive at a diagnosis. It will explain 
much if not everything, even if it 
fails to suggest either treatment or 


The trouble with most futile diag- 
nosis was that they considered Miss 
Varsi in her most superficial role ■ — 
the one that was merely superimposed 
upon her — that of a Hollywood star 
1 with the lures and allures of a half- 
baked diva. 

As a matter of fact, she was once 
acutely sized up by someone who 
is very much in the same lifeboat 
himself, drifting aimlessly and fret- 
fully between sanity and insanity. 

This was how it came about, 

During the filming of T#» North 
Frederick, Diane Varsi had stretched 
herself too far, until she collapsed 
on the set. Her studio said it was 
"exhaustion." But that was sugar- 
coating it with the customary Holly- 
wood subterfuge. 

In reality, Diane had her first reali 
bout with at least a touch of in- 
sanity. She became incapable of cop- 
ing any longer with the demands of 
her environment. Her inner urges* 
doubts and frustrations developed in- 
to overwhelming anxieties and com- 

It was not rest she needed to put 
her back on her feet — it was treat- 
ment by a competent psychiatrist. So 
they took her to Mount Sinai Hos- 
pital and left her on the third floor — 
the psychiatric ward. 

There she met the man with the 
diagnosis — Oscar Levant. 

Oscar himself was a patient on the 
third floor, trying as desperately as 
did Diane to stay alive while drift- 
ing toward a macabre solution. While 
her doctors offered all sorts of fancy 
explanations for Diane's plight, it 
needed a "fellow nut," as Levant put 
it, to produce the best explanation. 

Said Oscar in the mystic terms of 
his own unbalanced world: 

"I don't think there is anything 
really wrong with Diane. She is the 
normal abnormal! " 

There, then, was the key to Diane 
Varsi, the definitive diagnosis io 
aseptic clinical language, 

What Levant really had in mind 
was this: . 

Diane is normal within her own 
world, but abnormal in the world 
about her. Since she is constitutional- 
ly apart from the norm, even in 
Hollywood's warped sense of the 
word, she does not belong, no matter 
how she might try, except to her own 
little orbit. 

Diane Varsi is really a very smart 
young woman for she is doing exactly 
what is best for her — the only thing 
she can do. 

She turned her back on Hollywood 
and ran away from all its cheap glit- 
ter and costly glamor, because she 
knew better than all the doctors and 
kibitzers that if she had stayed it 
would have killed her. 

She had no illusions on this score! 
She wasn't living in a fool's paradise! 
She did as she pleased in her norma' 
abnormal way. 

"It's pretty obvious what kind o£ 
a girl I am," she said in a sore of 
self -analysis. "I don't go to parti es, 
I don't wear make-up or fancy clothes. 
I don't have dates because the' '.'» 
nobody I really like. 

"Somebody told me I have th< be- 
havior-characteristics of a possuip — 

whatever they are! People in a room 
often talk about me as if I were 
not there. Let them do as they please. 
This is my life and I am. responsible ■ 
for myself only to myself. 

"I am not going to cheat with my 
life, or compromise, even for the 
movies. They either take me as I am, 
or I leave!" 

It was, therefore, a supreme and 
superb act of self-defense — a proof 
positive of her superior sanity within 
her own world — that made her go. 
And now she refuses to return to the 
fold because she knows that she would 
commit suicide — figuratively at 
first, and maybe literally in the end 
— if she went back. 

Thus caught and cornered, her 
career is at a dead end. 

If ever the star is revived in her 
with some fancy artificial respiration, 
the woman she is will be dead. 

Diane is inclined to place the blame 
for her plight on Hollywood. In 
actual fact, it was not Hollywood that 
"destroyed" her and turned her into 
what she is today. 


Her two-and-a-half years of stardom 
represented the "abnormal" period in 
her life. The rest was "normal" in 
her own way, within her own closed 
world. When, without much trying 
and at the first throw, she reached 
the pinnacle of success, Diane was 
already spoiled for stardom in Holly- 
wood. By then, she was already so 
far gone down on the psychia- 
tric primrose path that Hollywood 
couldn't do much to aggravate the 

She was actually born to trouble! 

She was born angry, grew up angry, 
and, chances are, she will remain 
angry as long as she lives. 

And maybe she has every right 
and reason in the world to be angry. 

She herself supplied the definitive 
clues to her fantastic personality in 
the most unlikely place for such a self- 
searching confession — in her an- 
swers to the routine questionnaire 
of her studio's publicity department. 
To the question, "What is your fav- 
orite childhood memory?" she an- 
swered bluntly: "None!" 

And when she was asked, "What 
was your greatest disappointment?" 
she replied with overdrawn pathos: 

Diane herself is willing to supply 
only the barest outline of her biog- 
raphy. But by now enough is known 
of her life to enable one to recon- 
struct her miserable childhood. It 
was primarily responsible for all the 
torment she had to endure during 
her adolescence, young womanhood 
and brief period of stardom. 

Diane Varsi was born on February 
23, 1938, in San Francisco, one of 
the two daughters of Russell Varsi, 
a . florist , of Italian stock, and his 
wife Beatrice, of French descent. 

There never was any monetary 
worry in the Varsi household — - noth- 
ing to explain why, today, she sur- 
rounds herself with the deceptive 
aura of the barefoot girl. If any- 
thing, there was too much money — 
a 16-rooro house and servants. But 
the money the Varsis had could not 
buy either the affection or the hap- 
piness Diane and her sister Gail 

For all practical purposes, she had 
absentee parents. They did not have 
either the feeling or need, or even 
the time, to care for her. 

Her father, who changed from 
flowers to construction and prospered 
by the change, was rarely at home. 
Her mother was an invalid, confined 
to bed at home when she was not 

Already, at that tender age, her 
personality was showing. Sister 
Emilia at the Academy now recalls 
Diane as a "beautiful child" but also 
one who was "highly opinionated." 

Later she was sent to another con- 
vent, Notre Dame in Belmont, Cali- 
fornia, and there she blossomed out 
as a regular "odd-ball." ■ She was 
branded a rebel by her teachers. She 
would cut classes as she pleased. She 
would turn in blank examination 
papers. In the end, she left the con- 
vent, having failed in ALL her studies. 

Her rebellion continued in high 
school. During her junior year, when 
she was 15 years old, she was mar- 
ried. Today she calls that marriage 
an "episode" and says she no longer 
remembers her first husband's name. 
A year later the marriage was an- 

By then she was a perennial strang- 
er among strangers — a pretty little 
misfit — incapable of making friends. 
When she had no other place to 
go, she tried home again, for the last 
time in her life. 


"1 went home for awhile,'' she re- 
calls, "and for two weeks worked in 
a candle factory putting wax around 
the wicks. Then one morning 1 de- 
cided I just had to leave home. 1 
went to a friend's house and asked 
her if she wanted to go for a walk 
with me on the condition that we 
might not return. The walk, begun 
in San Mateo, ended up four hundred 
and fifty miles away in Los Angeles." 

She had 50 dollars but split it with 
her friend. She spent the nights on 
the beaches, sleeping al fresco, and 

spent her days walking and talking t© 
people on the street. 

In November, 1956, she was mar- 
ried again. This time so a young 
Hollywood agent named James Dick- 
son. It was Dickson who paved her 
way to a movie career. He sent her 
to director Mark Robson, then cast- 
ing Peyton Place, and she made a hit 
with him. Spyros Skouras, head of 
the studio, vetoed her employment. 
"What do you see in that thin little 
stick of wood?" Skouras asked Rob- 
son. But the director prevailed over 
the big boss, mainly because he had 
an ally at the studio — producer 
Jerry Wald. 

Robson and Wald did everything 
they could to cater to Diane's whims, 
not for any humanitarian reasons, for 
there are no philanthropists in Holly- 
wood, but because they recognized in 
her the fuse that could make the box 
office light up like a Christmas tree. 

Hollywood was willing to take 
Diane as she was. But Diane could 
not take Hollywood. 

It was a matter of life or death. 

She made her escape in the eleventh 
hour! She was in an awful hurry 
to go. Dressed in the black of mourn- 
ing, wearing flat-heeled shoes, she 
hurried through the gate at Interna- 
tional Airport in Los Angeles, to the 
plane that was to take her to a place 
in Vermont she had picked at ran- 
dom, merely because it was so far. 

So far from what? 

From the jungle that's coaxing and 
cajoling and beckoning her to return. 
Will she return? And what is in 
store for Diane Varsi? 

It's the great Garbo story all over 
again, only that the startling denoue- 
ment — the big switch in the plot — 
here occurred after the first act. Diane 
Varsi knows that there can be no 
second act. The curtain is down on 
Diane's career as a Hollywood star. 

It isn't as simple as that, to be sure. 
Even if a woman subsists on bread 
and carrots, she still has to eat. A 
quart of milk, a loaf of bread, a bunch 
of carrots cost money. 

Work — any work — baffles Diane- 
She never lasted at any of her fobs. 
She isn't made for this world. 

Today she is living in another 
world, scaffolded for her in religion 
and mysticism. 

She feels safe and comfortable in 
that world — her own world — a 
world of dreams and faith. 

But don't be surprised if she re- 
turns to acting in an offbeat house, 
working for a pittance, just enough 
to buy a meal in a cafeteria for her 
little son, and a container of milk. 

But it will be a passing show. 

"This is not a moment's journey 

that I am on,'* she recently said when 
discussing her future, "It is a con- 
tinuous journey. 

"There are intentions that are isa- 

Hollywood continues to treat her 
as a real-life person, a living woman, 
temporarily off her rocker. Yet in 

a mundane sense Diane is dead, even 
though she is still around — to read 
her own obituaries. 

Editor's Note: As we go to press 
we learn that San Mateo juvenile 
authorities are looking Into Diane 
Varsi, and may take over custody of 
her kid . . . 


(Continued from Page 1 1 ) 

But for the torrid and tern perm entail 
pussy cat, filming her latest flick, "La 
Bride Sur Le Cou"— "Only for Love"— is 
actually work. 

That particular night in January, 
the sizzling siren was just about 
steamed out as she returned to her 
home at 1 Rue Paul-Doumer in Paris. 
The berry-lipped BB's plush suite 
sprawls across the whole seventh- 
floor of that modern apartment build- 

But this evening— with her assets 
dragging— Brigitte made right for her 
lush boudoir and collapsed on the bed 
(as if she hadn't been in that favorite 
position most of the day already). 

Thafs w he in the pony-failed pack- 
age of petulance got the shock of her 


The luscious llovely had closed her 
eyes for a moment. When she opened 
them and looked up, standing there 
was her private secretary— a new one, 
female this time, since the bountiful 
Brigitte is mighty bitter about what 
she calls the betrayal of her previous 
personal aide. Alain Carre. 

Carre, her devoted secretary, had 
seen the often -plucked daisy through 
a chain of cuddly capers and passion- 
ate affairs. The bouncy babe had 
trusted him implicitly with ALL HER 
SECRETS (and who knows what else? 
—the kind of dictation a boss like 
Brigitte can give was never the usual 
kind of dictation). 

When Carre sold out— telling all 
to the newspapers— pulling even the 
towel sarong off the few secrets of 
Brigitfe's private lives, she was shat- 

It was one of a series of ghastly 
blows that Bed the bruised and bat- 
tered broad fto her recent suicide try. 

Now the bushed Brigitfe's new sec- 
retary was looking pretty worried. At 
first she refused to fell her bouncy 
boss what it was all about 

But finally she came out with the 
devastating truth. That day A STRAN- 

A cinema sinstress gets some mighty 
weird mail. Among the thousands of 
fan letters there are always a hand- 
ful of crank notes— letters from people 
asking for a handout or a date, not 
to mention the obscene scrawls penned 
with a sex-sick sneer by creatures 
who crawl out from under a slimy 

But this letter was different, 

Brigitte looked at it and grew 

The letter was scrawled in block 
letters on cheap paper, riddled with 
misspellings. It was anonymous. To 
the bottomy beauty, it screamed of 
potential danger. 

The letter reminded the bustiful 
Brigitte what had happened last year 
to the Peugeot car tycoon's son — 
who had been snatched and held 
for a royal ransom. 

In the bluntest terms it said the 
writer of the sickening scrawl KNEW 
bouncing baby boy, Nicholas. 

It warned her not to fell a word to 
the cops— but to see to it that 30 mil- 
lion francs were stuffed m an en- 
velope and left under the Arc de 
Triumphe at a certain specified hour. 

Otherwise the boy would be kid- 
napped or— what shocked Mama Bri- 
gitte more— some dreadful harm 
would come to him: he would be 

The letter might have been gust an- 
other nut note. Some stars might have 
tossed it in the trash can at once. Nof 

so Mile. Bar-dot. She reacted just liks 
a mother. 

It was quite a change of pace for 
the bawdy-naughty Brigitte. She has 
never shown more than a fleeting in° 
ferest in her baby since he was born, 
January 11, 1960, in her duplex bed- 
room with a lusty wail that set off a 
barrage of world headlines. "I prefer 
not to be reminded that I'm a mother/' 
she has said. 

But now she became terrified. Her 
face went white with fear. The bosom 
that usually heaves with passion 
heaved in terror. Her mouth trembled 
but she was unable to speak. The 
sassy, saucy siren became a shaking 
helpless child. 


She reached for a phone and called 
her father, Louis Bardot. She was 
ready to get together the parcel of 
money the anonymous letter-writer 
had demanded. Thirty million francs 
was nothing compared to the life of 
her child. She sobbed the whole story 
out over the phone, convinced ft 
would be folly not to pay up. 

But father Bardot had other ideas. 
He immediately called police and 
spilled the whole sordid story info 
the laps of the Paris cops. He swore 
them to absolute secrecy. 

A super-secret investigation began 
at once. 

And, what is most amazing of all, 
in Paris— where sensational news, no 
matter how secret, explodes into the 
open in no time-NO ONE KNEW! Not 
even the eager beaver newspaper 
people, who will hang upside dowr? 
by their heels to get an exclusive 
peep at a film star on her wedding 

The only news that got out was 
simply that for the next week or so 
the bold and brassy BB didn't show up 
at the studio. Work on "Only for Love" 
petered out. 

Not that an absentee Brigitte was 
anything new. It has happened many 
times in the past— when all play and 
not enough work made Brigitte a 
bad and bawdy girl. 

But in this case, the reasons were 
never revealed! 

From the moment the sex kitten's 
father stepped into the affair, things 
started to happen fast. 

First plainclothesmen and private 
dicks kept a 24-hour watch on the 
sextress' son. 

The sleuths even went so far as 
to have a dummy baby paraded m- 
bout in the streets in Nicholas' buggy 
to fool the kidnappers, while Nicholas 
himself was whisked away to si top 
secret hideout. 

Brigitfe's home and her parents' 

house of 11 Rue die fa Pompe were 
kept under the strictest stakeout. BUT 

Even Jacques Charrier, La Bardcfs 
abandoned and absentee husband, 
and Nicholas" booted-out father, was 
NOT told what was happening. 

After all, Jacques the Jerque had 
proved how delicate he is when he 
collapsed in an army barracks simply 
because his fellow rookies insisted on 
posting provocative pinups of his 
bosomy, undraped bride and repeat- 
edly asked what it was like to score 
with the golden girl. 

It was feared the jittery Jacques 
would become so emotionally unner- 
ved that he might somehow spill the 
story and cause more harm. 

Finally, the terrorized mother; went 
back to work. She tried to continue 
ankling and undulating about in 
front of the cameras, but not even 
brassy Brigitte was able to hide the 
fantastic pressure of the kidnap 

The days dragged en. And it was 
enh/ recently, when the kidnappers 
ef the Peugeot kid were finally ar- 
rested on a wild carnival of broads 
and booze at the Riviera, that Brig- 
itte began to relax a little. 

Papa and the gendarmes managed 
to convince the pouting passion flow- 
er that the crackdown on the Peugeot 
caper would surely have a psychologi- 
cal effect, and certainly would put 
a damper on, any plans by the mad- 
man who had written her the anony- 
mous threat. 

Such are the horrors of fame. It is 
not enough that filmdom's flashy filly 
is the constant prey of the parasites 
who surround her— not to mention her 
own madly mixed-up mind. 

But she must also be forever expos- 
ed as a target for the sicknick chara- 
acters of the blackmail brigade— so 
warped and greedy that they would 
fry to make capital of a famous sex 
star's baby. 

TRIED TO MAKE $100,000 

{Continued from Page 31) 

court with a high-priced mouthpiece 
and hollered "foul." 

"Towers is a man of substance," 
said the lawyer. "He is acquainted 
with people of prominence and has 
varied interests here and in England." 

Varied interests, eh? Towers' in- 
terests were a bit TOO varied, the 
sleuths decided, as they further ex- 
amined Towers' nifty little import 

The D.A.'s office, sifting through 
the playwright's "affairs," described 
Towers as "bankrupt" to the tune of 
M 20,000. 

^n fact, by the time the cops got 
through with harrassed Harry, he was 
being held on five separate felony 
counts (all having to do with pros- 
titution) and one misdemeanor (living 
off the earnings of a call girl.) And 
the Immigration boys were hot on his 
frail, too. 

If convicted, the pooped-out pro- 
ducer could simmer in the stir for 82 
years and/or get a bill for up to 
$17,000 in fines. But first they have to 
catch him again, because as soon as 
good old Hurried Harry got out of the 
can on $10,000 bail, he blew the cotm- 

iry and holed up in Europe — com- 
pletely blowing the flabbergasted DA's 
hopes of tagging him with so much as 
a parking ticket . . . 

Still in the spotlight, the lovely 
Marie, made her debut in Woman's 
Court— and if was quite an entrance. 


When the mink-coated minx ankled 
across the floor she practically flipped. 
Standing there was a distinguished 
old duffer with mutton chop whiskers. 

The elderly gent introduced him- 
self to the Judge as Horace "Hod" 
Dibben, a 56-year-old antique dealer. 
But Marie needed no introduction. 

Because old Brush-Face just hap- 
pened to be-her HUSBAND! 

Horace, the knick-knack nibbler, put 
up Maria's $500 bail and took his 
wayward wifey home. But not before 
he had pointed out that the pulsating 
pussycat was inclined toward exag- 
geration. "She's 19," he said proudly, 
" not 22, as she told police." 

The judge had no choice but to 
move Maria's case to Girl's Term 
Court. What went on that next week 

m one knows. But something hap- 

Because— when the bouncy British 
broad showed up in Girl's Court one 
week later— the city rolled out a royal 
red carpet. 

You would have thought the naugh- 
ty hooker was a V.I. P. instead of a 
V-Doll. Had she been a visiting royal 
princess, the Lovely Limey couldn't 
have been more graciously received. 

Not once during her visit to the 
staid old court house did the snooty 
cutie ever have to mingle with the 
run-of-fr he-mine wayward girls who 
-traipse through those halls daily. 

Instead, Marie was whisked info 
court by the back door and stashed in 
a side room declared "off limits" to 
the cameras of photographers gust 
drooling to get her in focus. 

There she was— right out of Vogue 
magazine— in a plaid skirt, tall white 
fur hat and a fingertip length Persian 
lamb coat. But Mutton Chops Dibben, 
the connoisseur of costly curios, 
wouldn't let his truant teenage bride 
out of sight. 

While the mob milled around hun- 
grily, trying to get a peep at the 
ravishing Maria, attendants sneaked 
her up the back stairs for a hearing 

Nervously stroking his bristled 
brow, Dibben gave his all in defense 
of Maria. "She is back in my apart- 
ment, living with me again," he said. 

"As for this man Towers— he's not 
the sort of person f mixed with m 
London," Dibben sniffed snootily. 
"Towers told Maria he would make 
her a star in America. She believed 
him, poor girl." 

Dibben toyed with his monocle and 
assured the judge he had no thought 
of returning to Old England. "My 
interests are here," he said, smiling at 
Maria, but possibly thinking of some 
desirable antique. 

The judge decided he would muHH 
the whole miserable mess over a 
while, and dismissed the mis-matched 
mates. And thafs when onlookers 
decided something fishy must be go- 
ing on. 


An immigration officer had rusn out 
of the building, hailed a cab, &m\ 
was trying to talk the driver into 
pulling up to a side door, on a pri- 
vate driveway, to pick up the precious 


But a traffic cop— who obvious^ 
didn't understand the import business 
—said no dice. 

So the siren had to swivel-hip 4© 
feet past the hoi pollou while the 

photographers' flash bulbs popped. 

No one could recall when a "way- 
ward minor" had received such royal 
treafment. Who had ordered it? 
Court officials weren't talking. 


Now, for the first time— the whole 
weird web of mystery shrouding the 
Maria Novotny case is pulled aside. 

AS ONLY HUSH-HUSH can do it! 

It seems the high-class call girl 
isn't nearly as high class as she pre- 
tends to be. Misbehaving Maria claims 
to be an aristocrat, a member of the 
snooty "international set." 

Thafs a lie. 

Oh, Maria is international, all right. 
Her mother is British and her father 
is a Czech. But that High Society bit is 
all an act to make her play price 
seem like a bigger bargain. 

In London Maria was a night club 
prancer under the phony moniker, 
"Mariella." And while she may have 
become the best-dressed call girl to 
make the docket in Manhattan's Girl's 
Term Court, back home she was one 
of the best undressed bundles in Brit- 
ain's girly magazines. 

But Naughty Mariella had big am- 
bitions. She met some London lovelies 
who claimed to have cleaned up for- 
tunes at the call girl racket in New 

Certain obliging cuties were good- 
hearted enough to sell Maria their 
black books of telephone numbers. 
The Blackpool beauty reached these 
shores with a line on the Sex-hung- 
riest marks in town. 

She was alt set to "make" only the 
very best connections! 

Maria blithely boasted to New 
York Call-girl chums that she planned 
to clean up $100,000 in a year. 

And from the way she operated 
there was never any doubt she meant 

The cash-crazy cupcake went to 
"work" at 11. a.m. and kept on the 
sex-sembly line until the wee hours. 

From the very beginning she acted 
like she was already as padded in 
the pocket book as she OBVIOUSLY 
was everywhere else. 

She was seen for months tripping 
in and out of the best hotels and 
night spots. Knowing John's sported 
her by her wacky hats and high fas- 
hion clothes. 

It's a sure bet she could have had 
a fabulous career as a fashion model, 
possibly even a TV actress— if she 
hadn't always preferred a reclining 
position .... 

An even bigger mystery are the 
two men in Maria's mixed-up life. 
Two more unlikely chaps you can't 


In London, they call Harry Towers 
the "wonder boy" of TV. If Towers 
is such a wonder, how come he was 
making the rounds in Manhattan be- 
fore Maria arrived— paying other call 
girls $50 a date. 

It is practically an unwritten law 
that a pimp never shells out— not 
even to another pimp's girl. 

Maybe Towers' hanky-panky was 
simply research. Maybe he wanted to 
find out how the high-pay passion 
pits operate. And what better way 
to learn than— first hand experience? 

Then there is that dusty doo-dad 
dealer, Horace. Where was he when 
Maria was rolling in the chips by 
rolling in the hay? 

And finally, when Maria appeared 
before the Girl's Term Court (being 
considered a wayward minor she had 
the good luck to escape the usual 
tough court dealing with call girls) 
whom do you think showed up? Well, 
none other than her mother, Mrs, 
Constance Novotny, who had come 

all the way from England to help heir 

Sexy Maria, who most definitely 
doesn't look 19, got a real break. For 
reasons not at all clear, she was 
treated rather nicely. The magistrate 
merely paroled her, in custody of her 
mother, for an indefinite probation. 

But the man and cash-crazy curie 
was told by the magistrate that from 
now on — listen to this, boys! — she 
can't go to night clubs or cocktail 
lounges; she has to be at home not 
later than 1 A.M.; and she has to be 
very careful as to the company she 
keeps. In other words, ifs strictly 
taboo for her to be seen introducing 
men to the bare facts of life . . . 

Being only 19 years of age saved 
the chic call girl from a jail cell in the 
Women's Detention House, where life 
is far less pleasant than being parol- 
ed to the custody of one's mom. 

The fate of Harry Alan Towers — 
as we go to press is still not decided. 
Maybe he should be paroled, too — 
in the custody of Maria's husband. 


(Continued from Page 35) 

persons, taught her a lewd, wanton 
and wayward way of life, and roused 
within her deep, unripened passions 
and unnatural desires inimical to the 
interests, welfare and fulfillment of 
her normal youth." 

According to Beverly, thus speaking 
through her poetic guardian, Flynn's 
grand design (which developed into 
Beverly's grand illusion) began in 
1957, in Hollywood, on a studio lot. 

In the starry-eyed language of the 
brief, the protagonists— now going by 
the more businesslike names of de- 
fendent and plaintiff— lived in two 
worlds apart. 


Flynn was "an attractive man . . . 
a motion picture actor of considerable 
note ... a gallant, bold, handsome, 
vigorous and adventuresome man." 

The "infant plaintiff," as Beverly 
is called throughout the complaint, 
was a stage-struck youngster with an 
unspoiled soul, who worked hard so 
that one day she might become a 

Then came the big collision, or, as 
tke complaint put it: 

"In 1957, when the infant plaintiff, 
Beverly Aadland, appeared in a minor 
capacity as a dancer in a picture in 
Hollywood, entitled 'Marjorie Morn- 
ingstar,' Errol Flynn was then on the 
same location filming a picture, en- 
■ titled 'Too Much Too Soon.' 

"Said Errol Flynn, a mature and 
glamorous man, three times married, 
father of four children, then and 
there contrived to and did meet Bev- 
erly Aadland. 

"At that time, said Errol Flynn was, 
or should have been, clothed with a 
mature appreciation of the responsi- 
bilities which every adult has in re- 
lation to the world, especially child- 
ren and immature persons. Said Errol 
Flynn, as an adult, was clothed with 
the most serious obligation to act in a 
reasonable, prudent and mature man- 
ner toward those about him and par- 
ticularly those persons whom he 
realized were not as mature as he, 
He realized, or should have realized, 
that adults about him were impressed 
by his stature in the theatrical world 

end by his accomplishments on fhe 
silver screen." 

The complaint went on, sneaking 
up to the punchlines: 

"He knew," lawyer Trussel wrote on 
behalf of Beverly, "or should have 
known, that a youthful girl aspiring 
to become part of that world would 
become more impressed, not only be- 
cause of her age, but because of her 
longing to become a 'star.' 

"He realized, or should have real- 
ized, that an immature girl, due to 
her lack of experience, her legal in- 
capability to consent to immoral acts, 
her incapacity of understanding the 
consequences of their relationship, her 
immaturity of judgment, was at a dis- 
advantage when dealing with him, of 
whom it might be said, was a well- 
travelled, well-educated man of the 

So what did the said Errol Flynn, 
this mature, thrice married man, do 
to observe the obligations of a well- 
travelled and well-educated star of 
the silver screen? 

At this point, Beverly came in for 
some battery in the flowery language 
of her guardian, for this was, accord- 
ing to Trussel, how Errol eventually 
dealt with the infant plaintiff: 

"From 1957 until the time that 
Errol Flynn died, on October 14, 1959, 
during which period Beverly Aadland 
was at all times an infant under 18 
years of age, Errol Flynn . . , 

". . . knowingly, intentionally, wil- 
fully, harmfully, offensively, shame- 
fully, wrongfully, recklessly, malicious- 
ly, unlawfully, illegally, tortiously, 
and with immoral intent and pur- 
pose . . . 

". . , continued pressing his atten- 
tion on Beverly Aadland, seeing her 
constantly, catering to her childish 
whims, continually and constantly 
taking advantage of her immaturity 

". . . worked upon her resistance, 
her impressionable, natural, childish 
curiosity . . . 

". . . led her along the byways of 
immorality , . , 

". . . accustomed her to a frenzied 
life of wild parties, subjected her to 
immoral debauchery and sex orgies 

M . , . taught her to react with wan- 
ton disregard for conventions, and 
feelings of other persons . . . 

". . . taught her a lewd, wanton 
and wayward way of life, and 
roused within her deep, unripened 
passions and unnatural desires mi- 
mics! to the interests, welfare and ful- 
fillment of her normal youth," 

That wasn't all. 

"He arrested her moral, normal, 
mental development and robbed her 

of the ambition, industry and oppor- 
tunity to achieve a youthful! goal as 
a successful motion picture actress, 
for which she has assiduously worked, 
trained and strived to prepare her- 
self since the age of five ... He had 
taken advantage of her immaturity, 
had led heir along a foul path, filled 
her mind with many immoral 
thoughts and allowed her to come 
into contact with much that was de- 
trimental and destructive to her char- 
acter, morals, health, welfare and 

"He has scarred her mind and left 
her with her great immoral disillu- 

While thus blasting and castigating 
fhe said Flynn, that gallant and bold 
man, Trussel, in this lyric mood, did 
not spare the girl whose general 
guardian he was. 

According to the complaint, Beverly 
meekly "submitted to Flynn's over- 
powering and magnetic demands for 
a loose and carefree companion . . . 
adopting his unhealthy and perverted 
philosophy of wringing every pleasure 
out of life., regardless of cost." 

Trussed then went on to say that 
Beverly participated in what her guar- 
dian called "frenzied ecstasies." 


The outcome of this "immoral life 
of debauchery" was what you would 
expecJ. Beverly was turned into a 
"sex delinquent whose immoral es- 
capades," Trussel ruefully conceded, 
'continued beyond Flynn's death." 
She became a "wayward minor - . . 
a public notoriety," until she came to 
be confined, on April 9, 1960, w 
Juvenile Hall, Los Angeles. 

Flynn, according to Trussel, was & 
perfectionist. He left nothing in Bev- 
erly as he had found it. 

"He," wrote the garrulous guard- 
ian, "deprived her of a normal life. 
He deprived her of the normal pur- 
suits of a young, healthy, average 
teen-ager. He deprived her of the 
God-given opportunity of coming into 
bloom as a normal woman. 

"He robbed her/' Trussel stated, 
: 'of alt the beauty, wonder and [oy 
of her youthful years of normal 
growth and development, 

"Her opportunities to meet and 
marry a young man of good moral 
character and reputation have been 
seriously and permanently jeopardiz- 
ed" by what the guardian described 
as Flynn's "battery and trespass to 
Beverly's body." 

Can this ever be made up? 

Is there anything in the world that 
could compensate poor little Beverly 
for the perversions and ecstasies that 
destroyed her beauty, wonder and 

Yes, there is! 

Five million dollars? 

Gave us those five million bucks, 
the guardian said in effect,, and a! h 
forgiven and forgotten. 

When the complaint reached the 
Supreme Court and was assigned to 
Justice Hofstadter, the jurist refused 
to believe his own eyes. He was never 
before subjected to such battery and 
trespass to his legal equanimity. 

How can a case like this even be 
dignified with a juridical decision? 
But Justice Hofstadter rose to the oc- 
casion. Af any rate, he turned down 
Beverly's claim, but did it in co brief 
of his own that was as poetic «is 
Trussel's work of art. 

Wrote the Justice in lyric legcnlese: 
'The mess," for that was what St 
was, "should not, and, in any event, 
cannot, be swept under the rug. 

"While we are here necessarily con- 
fined to the complaint, that paper 
unfolds much of the sordid Beverly 
Aadland-Errol Flynn story— at least 
as the plaintiff conceives it. 

"It tells in great detail how Flynn, 
the glamorous movie star, led Bever- 
ly down the primrose path of dalli- 

"He is pictured as a lecherous li- 
bertine who took advantage of the 
plaintiffs youth and immaturity as 
well as her ambition to make her 
way in the silver screen world/' 

Buf no matter what and how much 
fhe complaint told him, the Honor- 
able Justice was neither amused or 

He reminded lawyer Trussel that 
fhe old law had been abolished and 
semantic subterfuges could not re- 
vive it in the Supreme Court. He fur- 
ther reminded the general guardian 
that the seduction of a minor was, 
anyway, a matter for her parents to 
beef about. 

And, last but not least, he appear- 
ed to agree with the administrators 
of the Flynn estate who claimed: 

"As there were no allegations of 
force, we can conclude that plaintiff 
voluntarily entered upon a course of 
conduct she knew to be morally 

Beverly's over-documented case was 
thrown out of Justice Hofstadter's 

But that didn't dismay Beverly. 

She got herself another guardian 
and is appealing the verdict. The 
$5,000,000 Beverly Aadland story is 
due for a reprise, but there is nothing 
left to fill the gaps. 

And, poor little Lolita, she does not 
know that she is thus pillorying her- 
self and so deepening her certified 
notoriety that not even ten times 
$5,000,000 will ever be able 9© white- 
wash it again. 


(Centinutd from Pag* 23) 

the former senator from Massachu- 
setts, she was posing for photographers 
in a crushing clinch with her latest 
conquest — Italian Prince Marcan- 
tonio Borghese. 

Then the Prince gave her a line of 
baloney about having to go to 
Bologna on business, and Alicia gave 
HIM the business. 
/ As soon as her Passion Prince was 
gone, she began to buy the mustard 
at a new stand. The bubbly blonde 
must think she's quite a vamp the 
way she fills her plate with an anti- 
pasto of men. 

Next she was seen nuzzling up 
to muscleman Gianfranco Piacenti 
and necking up a storm in his frisky 

Only trouble was, the panting Pian- 
centi was so busy flexing his own 
muscles and unflexing Alicia's, he 
forgot to ask the owner of the car 
if he could borrow it. 

The owner called the cops and 
the cops called the giant Gianfranco 
a name — thief. Wham! The irritat- 
ed Italian found himself stewing be- 
hind bars. 

The fickle filly was very sympa- 
thetic. She understood how such 
things happen. Not long before she 
had been flat herself — as flat in 
the pocketbook as she is hilly in other 


Alicia didn't have a penny. But 
she had a checkbook and a pen and 
I that was all the imaginative imp 
needed. Like a one-armed paper 
hanger, she started passing bad checks 
all over the continent. 

In a Swiss dress shop she bounced 
a $400 check as high as the Alps. 
And no St. Bernard pup came around 
to rescue her. The Swiss cops have 
a warrant out for the swivel-hipped 
sweetie's arrest. 


But that was just the beginning, 

After spreading the scandal far and 
wide, she saw the storm rising and 
thought she would straighten things 

out. So the silly sexpot sat down 
and wrote a letter of apology to Pierre 
Salinger, the President's press secre- 

HUSH-HUSH thinks the cunning, 
crazy cutup would be far better off 
shooting off her mouth to a psychia- 
trist instead of to the press. 

An hour a day with a headshrinker 
might do the witless wench a world 
of good. It might help Purdom, too, 
if Alicia would unwind a little with 
a psycho-doc on hand to tie the loose 
ends up. 

When the punchy Purdom waltzed 
down the aisle with Alicia he was 
still spinning from the song and cha 
cha cha of his first wife, a ballerina 
named Tita. 

The torrid Tita taxed him plenty 
as the price of a divorce. She still 
gets a healthy hunk of every pay 
check. And what Tita doesn't get, 
Alicia wants. 

And she won't take no for an 

She keeps trying to climb into his 
pad, and pokey Purdom keeps shov- 
ing her out. 

Like that wild time in St. Moritz 
at the sumptuous Palace Hotel, when 
Alicia's hanky-panky hubby was "au- 
ditioning" a new leading lady — 
EVERYBODY'S pet playgirl, actress 
Linda Christian, 

The livid, lovely, lusty Alicia 
stalked into the lobby. 

Manager Andrea Badrutt ran over 
to head her off. 

"I demand to share my husband's 
room," the hysterical hussy screamed. 

"Throw her out," Badrutt snapped. 

The doorman "escorted' the wild 
eyed wench to the door, and she head- 
ed through the snow straight to the 

The cops took one look at luscious, 
lovely Alicia. What kind of man 
could toss such a sexpot out of his 
bed? Edmund and Linda arrived to 
explain, and the persistent Purdom 
insisted on taking a detective back 
to the hotel to show him there wasn't 
room for Alicia. 

Of course, he could also have told 
the cops he seldom used THAT par- 
ticular room, anyway. But he forgot 
to mention this fact. 

Still steaming, Alicia moved into 
the Carleton across the street. There 
she slipped into a Turkish towel and 
held one of her infamous press con- 

"I will follow Edmund everywhere 
he goes," the silly sextress told re- 
porters. "With that woman or any 
other. I will not give him any peace 
until he agrees to my terms for di- 
vorce. I'll picket the Palace, if neces- 
sary, with a sign saying, 'Linda, Go 
Home! ' He's my husband and he must 
look after me." 

It must have suddenly gotten chilly 
over there at the Carleton however, 
because the bottomy-blonde was soon 
heading for warmer climes. 

And whom do you think she 
latched on to just a few weeks later? 
None other than Brigitte Bardot's 
broken-down bridegroom, Jacques 

You can't imagine a stranger couple 
than the 26-year-old, Polish-born 
Alicia and the 23-year-old, frustrated 

He can't speak a word of English 
and she can't speak a word of French. 
They have to communicate in . . . 
German . . . and whatever other in- 
ternational "language" they decide to 

They met in one of those dark and 
dingy Left Bank night clubs, but the 
two miserable mismatched mates 
didn't need light. They glowed with 
an electricity all their own. 

Jilted Jacques was still in shock 
after being booted out of the bust- 
ful Brigitte's boudoir. 

So when the amorous Alicia gazed 
deep into his cocker spaniel eyes and 
said, "What you need is a personal 
manager . . . me," Jacques crawled 
right into her clutches, 


If nothing else, Alicia shows a flair 
for originality. In the old days, a sex- 
hungry guy had to drag out the etch- 
ings. Today the broads beat them 
to it. 

Instead of whispering sweet noth- 
ings to each other, the two lusty 
lovebirds traded sob stories: Jittery 
Jacques spilled out all the dirt about 
Brigitte and how she'd almost driven 
him to suicide, while Alicia let loose 
with a round of abuse against Pur- 

Then they took turns cheering each 
other up. 

The curvaceous cutie was a real 
cure for the crushed Charrier — exactly 
what he needed for his bruised ego. 
She took him in hand. 

The crafty chick convinced Chasv 

I rier he could be another Brando. All 


he needs is a little grease on his T- 
shirt, she said. And, with her connec- 
tions, Alicia promised he would be 
a cinch to get into the Actor's Studio, 

Jacques is acting like a pampered 
pet poodle. The other day at Maxim's. 
Paris' most fabulous luncheonette. 
Charrier was overheard feeding his 
blonde pretty a tasty line: 

"Brigitte Bardot is a poor little 
creature, a kid . - but you, Alicia, 
you are a most wonderful woman!" 

/Life is looking brighter every day 
/for this Jacques-in-rhe-box. He lost 
I bis pout-pussed sex kitten, but he 
found himself a ravishing replace- 
' ment. And now — after being sc 
for months he had to room 
friend and ride the subway 
— Charrier is suddenly loaded with 

He is staked out in an elegant apart- 
ment on the Rue Faisandrie in oue 
of the smartest quarters of Paris, driv- 
ing an Alfa-Romeo sportcar, and 
showering his delicious dolly, Alicia. 

with a 

with fabulous baubles. 

Where does the cash come from? 

HUSH-HUSH can reveal the seer*" 
behind this sudden shower of wealth 

<f& a payoff from none other tha^ 
the beatwijws Bardot herself, for the 
divorce she's been trying to get fd 

What will happen next, no one 

As long as the publicity-pandng 
Alicia gets her pretty pan in all the 
papers — thanks to her endless chain 
of romances with dime-a-dozen male 
starlets and puerile playboys — she 
will keep cooing and cuddly. 

Bui it's time someone told that 
calculating cutie hef tasteless self- 
promotion stinks. Her running off at 
the mouth about a "romance" with 
the former Senator from Massachusetts 
and the best thing she could possibly 
do is to . . . STAY AWAY FROM 


(Continued from Page 37| 

Elizabeth Seal got her Tony for 
the work she did as a dilly of a French 
filly in "Irma La Douce." 

And Joan Plowright was given her 
Tony for a frantic picture of a never- 
say-no, never-say-stop nymphomaniac 
daughter in "Taste of Honey." 

In short, it was a season that went 
over with a big bang in the movies 
ind on the stage. 

Call girl cuties, fascinating floozies 
and other virginless versions of lus- 
cious lovelies have become the order 
of the day. 

In the case of succulent Shirley, it 
may be a back to nature movement. 
All those gingham get-ups and sweet- 
and-lovely parts she used to play were 
about as close to this teaser's true 
character as falsies are to Marilyn 
Monroe's bra. 

This naughty nymph likes to get 
down to the bare essentials in the 
most essential of things. Which ex- 
plains why shapely Shirley nestles 
nude in the water when she swims 
in her Hollywood pool. 

It's the same when the dimpled 
doll hits the sack — perchance to 


Shirley is married to Jack Cassidy, 
an actor and musical comedy singer 
since 1956. They met while he and 
the 5-foot-5, 114-pound busty broad 
were rehearsing the '"Beggar's Opera." 

But it wasn't all work and no play 
as Jack and the Jones girl got to 
really know each other. 

Less than two years after he learned 
that his busty babe had hazel eyes 
and REAL blonde hair, the couple 
had a son, Shaun. 

But before the marriage, Shirley 
was a worrying wench. 

"I almost didn't get my husband," 
the brainy dame explained. 

It seems that Jack the Joker had 
tabbed her a prissy pussycat. To him 
she was a boring broad. 

And while simmering Shirl was all 
girl — at home, in Hollywood, at the 
studio — they had her pegged as a 
square without fare. 

She was strictly from Hicksville, 
they decided. The farmer's daughter, 
but without the traveling salesman 
around. So they put her into gingham 
dresses, with collars as high as an 

elephant's eye, and sleeves that were 
puffed up like a pair of potatoes. 

"1 look like what I'm not," she 
said "I look as wholesome as break- 
fast food." 

And nobody even wanted a nibble. 
The gorgeous gal — hidden behind 
all that clothing — looked so inno- 
cent, she couldn't even get arrested 
at a Hollywood Policemen's Ball. 

Movie bigwigs said she was too 
sweet, too girlish. So, while Shirley 
fidgeted, the producers flipped over 
a bevy of beatnik broads who up- 
staged smiling Shirley's pink cheeks 
with their unwashed kissers. 

They became hoi box-office, while 
the frantic filly just became hotter 
and hotter under that gingham collar. 

But finally the Jones girl got a 
break. She was cast as a flipping 
flapper with a gullet like the Gulf 
of Mexico for gin. The program 
was the "The Big Slide", with Red 
Skelton, on C.B.S. 

Later, when boastful Burt Lancas- 
ter was seeking a red-hot hooker 
for "Gantry", he remembered Shir- 
ley's sex-cess on TV -and gave her the 

Hollywood gasped at bully -boy 
Burt's guts. But it paid off. As a 
iove- for- sale siren, sensational Shirley 
— her dad named her after Shirley 
Temple — was an ace in the hole. 

The image of yesterday's calico 
cutie of "Oklahoma" fame was re- 
placed by a nymph in net stockings. 

The chick, who seized opportunity 
by the bed' sheets, says the role in 
"Gantry" was "the best I ever had." 

When she used to act like a prissy 
prude, all she ever got in the mail 
were bills. 

But now the letter carriers bring 
the wails of males who say they twist 
and turn, thinking about the vestal 
virgin turned temptress. And Shirley 
loves every bit of this frantic fan 

"I've never had such mail," she 

"Only two letters," the sextress con- 
tinued, "complained. They were from 
mothers of teenage girls who won- 
dered why I could accept such a role." 

And then, hiki ng her hips higher 
in a hugging gown, she said: 

"If only two people object, I can't 
be so wrong about being so bad on 

The dazzling dame didn't even 
crack a smile when she said: "I have 
a deceptive look. I look like & girl 
who is dull. But it's the old story 
of type casting." 

Off-screen she's a type, all right. A 
type that can make a man miserable. 

The coy cuddler, when asked sev- 

era! months ago who was the boss 
of her home, said, "Jack is, or he 
thinks he is." 

She admitted that feist summer ifee 
©ormed her hapless husband into 
breaking his back over the kitchen 
stow while she floated nude around 
the pool. 

Once, Jack, an apron around his 
waist, looked at the luscious lovely 
as the water played over the byways 
of her body in the pool and he re- 
membered what the calculating cookie 
had told him: 

"People, when they see me dressed, 
are sure that someone called Shirley 
Jones has never had to experience 
brushing off those birds and bees." 

The gorgeous gal is, for good or 
bad, growing more and more unin- 

In "Pepe" she plays a disillusioned 
actress who finally makes it in the 
movies, by successfully swinging with 
Dan Dailey. 

"This kind of role made me more 
uninhibited as a person — and I'm 
loving it," she said. 

Which ties in with this: As it so 
often happens in Hollywood, at the 
very time when Shirley was nominated 
for the Oscar, rumor swept Sunset 
Boulevard that her marriage to Jack 
Cassidy was starting to ebb. It was said 
that for some time the blonde homb- 
stress has not seen eye-to-eye with Jack, 

But HUSH-HUSH can reveal that 
this is simply not true. It happens oc- 
casionally that, when a wife's success 
becomes great and overshadows a less 
successful husband, show biz marriages 
go pffft. It can be reported that Shir- 
ley and Jack, who have a little son 
Shaun, now three years old, are ex- 
pecting their second baby in late fall. 
Shirley, by the way. at this very mo- 
ment, is in the midst of the film ver- 
sion of "The Music Man", in which she 
portrays a prim librarian — quite a big 
switch from the loose girl she played 
in "Elmer Gantry". 

Speaking of that Oscar, the night 
the sextress won that prize, the sin-is- 
90 -good- for- the- bank-account gal said : 



At which many older and wiser 
screen sirens, with Oscars to burn, 
shook their heads sadly over the in- 
evitable tragedy of growing up too 

The Jones girl is headed for some 
god-awful dull and lonely nights be- 
fore her sex-propelled star ride is 
over, they figure. And it couldn't 
happen to a nicer kid, either. 

At least, she WAS a nice kid. Once 
upon a time .... 



(Continued from Page 27) 

dials your number can talk with you s 
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and your sweetie, in Las Vegas, can 
keep each other coming and going 
all night with hot, sweet nothings 
whispered across the miles. 

And the frustrated phone fatheads 
can't hit you for one red cent! 

Sounds too far-fetched to be true? 
Well, it's true, all right. Just such 
a gadget exists. And more than 100 
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Who's got them? You can prob- 
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This incredible parasite phone rac- 
ket could cost the telephone empire 
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dime here and there. Yet even with 
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she country, the giant communics- 
sions syndicate is having a devil of 
a time clearing up the most costly 
wrong number in its history. 

Who is the genius that beat the 
telephone system? 

A super scientist? A graduate elec- 
tronics engineer? Not on your life. 
He is just plain do-it-yourselfer Wal- 
ter Shaw, a 44-year-old Miami man, 
father of two, an amateur inventor — 
for kicks and CASH. 

Naturally enough this wizard of 
the wires got his education working 
for the Southern Bell Telephone Com- 
pany. But his bosses never recog- 
nized his genius. They kept him busy 
as a mere lineman — installing tele- 

But you can't stifle a natural-born 
talent. It wasn't long before the 
screwdriver genius found he could 
make a mint with installation of an- 
other kind. 

Sharpy Shaw got out his crusty 
tool kit and a few hunks of scrap 
metal and went to work right in 
his living room. A screw here. A 
screw there. In no time he had creat- 
ed a daring little ding-a-ling that 
could influence the timing device of 
an ordinary telephone with an elec- 
tronic signal. 

Then the money-hungry telephone 
tinkerer buried his bamboozling 
brainchild in an innocent- loo king 
oblong box and attached it to the 
wires of a phone. The makeshift 
magic worked wonders. 

Calls came in collect but — as far 
as the all-knowing telephone ex- 
change was concerned — it was as if 
the calls were never completed! 


Word got around — LONG DIS- 
TANCE COLLECT, of course — and 
the coinbox conniver w T as in business. 
He and an obliging pal from Gokien 
Beach were soon tossing together 10 
voll-chiseling devices a day. 

Bookies around the country snap- 
ped them up — a real bargain at (a 
mere) $1,500 each. The only market 
the wily Sh w couldn't crack was 
Chicago — where the phone company 
hasn't gotten around to putting in 
a direct dial system yet. 

Then one day the wire-whiz kid 
finally got hung up. 

It was a blustery March afternoon. 
A brace of bargain boxes were ring- 
ing up the change in a cozy little 
bookmaking shack out in Mamaro- 
neck, Long Island. 

The intake was high and, needless 
to say, the overhead was low. Who 
knows, maybe the price of the bon- 
anza box was tax deductible, if 

bookies bother paying taxes, that 
is ... . 

Suddenly there was a noise at the 
door. And it wasn't the roar of the 
wind. It was a raid! Cops burst into 
the room! Scratch sheets went fly- 
ing! The harrassed booksters grabbed 
a stack of loose bills and scrambled 
toward the windows. 

The raiders took over, swooping up 
the evidence like a herd of vacuum 

"Ding-a-ling," went the phone — 
very innocent-like. 

The cops did a double take. In 
no time, detectives were digging 
those crazy telephones. "The most 
incredible thing I ever saw," said 
Westchester County D. A. Leonard 

And soon the sleuths made a con- 
nection. Two of the same type of 
wonder boxes had been picked up in 
a similar cops-and-bookie caper down 
in Dade County, Florida. 

Ironically enough, the pinch on the 
truant lineman came LONG DIS- 

The coy coin chiseler wasn't even 
embarrassed. He was PROUD. "It's 
my brainchild and it's useful for cross- 

country conferences," he boasted. 
Then he clammed up. 

Well, the telephone dicks — who 
uncrossed all those lines to shut him 
up — wish the silent electronic whiz 
would start talking. Believe it, or 
not, the engineers of this fantastic 
financial syndicate HAVE NOT 

The payload of the no-pay gimmick 
is buried in a hunk of material that's 
tougher to melt than a dedicated 

The company's fumble-fingered so- 
called experts have tried to dissolve, 
melt, X-ray and chisel it open — but 
whatever they do, they manage to 
pulverize the insides, too. 

When they turn to Shaw for help 
all he will say is: 'Loan me a dime, 
I want to phone my lawyer." 

Too bad a guy with Shaw's gift 
for on-the-cuff gab doesn't put his 
screwdriver to work on some more 
legitimate gadget. 

And too bad the phone company 
didn't plug this particular lineman 
into a spot where his amazing talents 
would be bringing in money instead 
of draining it out. 


(Continued from Page 171 

to do his best to save Sonny from 
the threatening doom. 

Father Stephens noted Liston's 
natural ability for boxing. He fur- 
nished both opportunity and inspira- 
tion for the full development of his 
protege's God-given gift. 

The boy's pugilistic capability 
proved in excess of the padre's wildest 
dreams. But the rehabilitation was 
not complete. Liston's opponents in 
the ring have been easy by compari- 
son with his life-long struggle to keep 
himself clear of, shall we say, further 
entanglements with society. 

Unfortunately, Sonny drifted away 
from Father Stephens too soon. And 
he drifted too far for his own good. 

He virtually never stopped drifting. 
His troubles with the law did not 
cease even when he started making 
a phenomenal reputation for himseli 
in the ring, a reputation that was 
obviously on the level. 

And, further clouding the horizon 
of his present prospects, are the sinis- 

ter shadows of his behind-the-scenes 
sponsors. Aside from being in gen- 
eral disrepute, presently they are also 
in violent conflict with the authori- 
ties. Some of them are actually lan- 
guishing in various prisons. Others 
are out on bail but under indictment. 
Still others are fingered by District 
Attorneys (like New York's Frank 
Hogan) and Congressional investiga- 
tors (like Senator Estes Kefauver) as 
the rotten eggs that stink up the 
whole boxing racket. 


As Lee Greene put it, in his list 
of the most promising heavyweights: 
''Waiting in the wings is Charles 
'Sonny' Liston, a promising fighter 
who is being brought along as the 
next big meal ticket for Jim Norris 
and the remnant of the IBC." 

Green's cautious words camouflage 
Sonny's real plight. 

"Norris" and the "remnant of the 

IBC" are but synonyms for what is 
known as the "Fight Mob." Behind 

the seemingly respectable front of 
that Chicago multi-millionaire and 
badly tarnished golden boy of boxing, 
Jim Norris, is an unsavory character, 
the no-longer-mysterious "Mr. Gray." 

He is, of course, Frankie Carbo. 

Even Frankie does not represent 
the real top echelon of boxing's 
shadowy underworld. The former 
trigger-man merely fronted, and man- 
aged the fight business, for agents 
like Louis Dragna. for instance, un- 
disputed gang-lord of California. 

It was claimed in so many words 
that Sonny Liston is the most valu- 
able colt in Frank Carbo' s dirty stable. 
What's more, he is said to be owned 
by none other than Dragna himself. 

While Louis steadfastly denies any 
such connection with the newest 
heavyweight threat, there is consider- 
able skepticism surrounding his dis- 

Now Carbo is in prison. Dragna. 
as usual, remains invisible. But there 
are others of their ilk far too evident 
behind Sonny's broad back. Their 
presence, alone, confirms beyond any 
doubt Liston's underworld connec- 

Top man on this totem pole is 
Frank Palermo, the celebrated Phila- 
delphia philanthropist, known as 
"Blink}' 1 ' in the fight business. BHnky 
is the tested pro-consul of the Carbo 
organization in Pennsylvania, with 
direct and lively links to the biggest 
names in the underworld. His per- 
sonal tentacles reach as far as Florida, 
where Carbo used to rule, and to 
California, the Dragna domain, 

Palermo, also, puts up a front of 
modesty and refuses to claim any 
credit for Sonny-Boy Liston. He will 
even go so far as to say that he really 
has nothing in common with the kid. 

To prove the claim, he points with 
pride to the fact that Liston has 
a manager of his own, and any 
similarity between that manager and 
Blinky Palermo is purely coincidental. 

Sonny's working manager is Joe 
"Peppe" Barone — and you need not 
go any further to probe the connec- 
tions. Barone is best known as still 
another front, this time in the man- 
agerial field, for the Dragna-Carbo 

In prison or under indictment, both 
prosecuted and persecuted by the au- 
thorities, this is not the kind of crowd 
any promoter in his right mind would 
want to cooperate with. Not even if 
the stakes are as high as those of 
the World Heavyweight Champion- 
ship. As long as Sonny is so deeply 

in the clutches of the Mob, no self- 
respecting promoter will tap him 
with the proverbial ten-foot pole. 

Therein lies the big dilemma. 

Sonny Liston can no longer be ig- 
nored, if new blood is to be trans- 
fused into boxing. With a flicker- 
ing shadow like Floyd Patterson and 
a pampered dandy like Ingemar Jo- 
hansson monopolizing the exclusive 
upper bracket in the heavyweight 
class (the only class in which real 
money can be minted ) , boxing is 
headed for extinction. After the last 
circus act put up by those two — in 
Florida, where they fell victims tq 
fly-swapper punches and spent time 
in horizontal poses for no reason 
actually apparent to spectators — the 
worst is expected when boxing's fu- 
ture is contemplated. 

The opinion is, therefore, fairly 
unanimous that the sooner the dismal 
Patterson era is brought to a close, 
the better it will be for both boxing 
and the business built on that manly 

In boxing circles everywhere, the 
liberation of Sonny Liston from his 
own dictators is discussed with the 
same furtive eagerness as that of Cuba 
from its bearded madmen. 

In swanky restaurants in midtown 
Manhattan you can see small bunches 
of well-known gentlemen in huddles. 
They are discussing the salvage job 
of Sonny. 

There in one corner may be seen 
young, self-assured, aggressive Roy 
Cohn, the late Sen. Joe McCarthy's 
erstwhile side-kick, now one of the 
country's highest-paid attorneys. Roy 
sneaked into the boxing racket in the 
wake of the short-lived Rosensohn 
era, so named after the luckless boy- 
promoter who once managed a Pat- 
terson championship bout (the first 
with Ingo ) for another branch of 
the Mob. 

Roy had what you might call the 
clean approach to the cauliflower 
jungle. He hoped to clean up by pro- 
moting the big bouts. Even if he 
had to clean the Mob out of the racket. 

Due to inexperience and other — 
including personal — factors, Cohn 
and his associates have failed on both 
counts. It was not entirely their fault. 
Not even a Tex Rickard could do 
anything heroic with second-raters 
like Floyd and Ingo, 

Now Ray Cohn is trying to im- 
prove his own situation, and at the 
same time the whole climate of box- 
ing, by restoring some class to the 
sport — via Sonny. He and the Fu- 
gazys, an uncle-and-nephew team 
aligned with him, are secretly rais- 







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ing the fortune they think will be 
needed to buy Liston from the Mob. 
The Roy Cohn partnership (as 
clumsy as ever) is no longer alone 
in bidding for Sonny, Others are said 
to be lined up behind Rocky Mar- 
ciano, with funds said to be in ex- 
cess of $1 million, to liberate Liston, 


Rocky is a genuine fan of Sonny's. 
Nobody regrets it more than the 
Brockton Blockbuster that the kid 
is so deeply mortgaged to the Mob. 
If Rocky had the money, he would 
put up the dough himself. He re- 
gards such a deal not merely as a 
great humanitarian act (saving Son- 
ny's soul ) , but also as excellent busi- 

But Marciano's experience in the 
ring, and his own associations with 
promoters and handlers, were not 
exactly conducive to the accumula- 
tion of a substantial private fortune. 
Some even go as far as to hint that 
Rocky — whose fistic skill and good 
sportsmanship made millions for 
others — is actually broke. 

Waiting for others to finance him 
(despite rumors about "multi-million- 
aire backers''), Rocky realizes that 
his efforts are nebulous. Still, insiders 
regard him as the most serious con- 
tender for Sonny's services, especially 
if his efforts are measured by the 
man's sincerity. 

At one stage it was also said that 
a baseball syndicate identified with 
Hank Greenberg was getting ready to 
buy out the Mob and assign Sonny 
to the tender care of Marciano. 

While it may be true that liston 
is the best pug that money can buy 
these days, it is doubtful that he's 
really for sale. 

It is a truism in the fight racket 
that the big dough rides on the heavy- 
weight title. For many years, the Mob 
waited for this special opportunity. 
In the meantime, it was sinking a 
lot of good money into the develop- 
ment of bad fighters. It was frustrat- 
ed in these costly efforts, first by 
the decline and fall of Joe Louis, then 
by Marciano's abrupt retirement. The 
sort of bonanzas the Carbo-Palermo 
crowd could stage-manage with 
"champs" like Primo Carnera just 
doesn't exist any more. 

Now, at last, the precious plum 
appears to be within the Mob's reach. 
After all the frustrations, humiliations 
and tribulations of these years, in- 
siders expect the Mob to hold on 
to Sonny, even if only by the skin 
of their teeth. They will leave noth- 
ing undone to create a respectable 

front after all, behind which Sonsy 
Liston could make his pitch for the 

Where does Sonny himself stand 
in this scramble? 

He appears to be quite eager to 
be liberated, for he himself would 
like to see the crown on his own 
head. But he realizes that his chances 
remain dim as long as the Dragnas, 
the Carbos and the Palermos infest 
his environment. 

However, he entertains rather un- 
orthodox ideas about the way his 
liberation could be accomplished. 

For one thing, Sonny cannot see 
why his handlers are any worse than 
Patterson's sacrosanct manager, Con- 
stantine ("Cautious Cus") D'Amato. 
He refuses to concede that the crowd 
in his own back yard is any more 
unsavory than the gents who squatted 
in the twilight zone of the first Floyd- 
Ingo bout. 

For another thing, Sonny does not 
seem to approve all this talk about 
his "liberation" which treats him like 
a chattel or a piece of real estate. He 
wants Peppe Barone to give him up, 
or at least that was what he said in 

"I'll then go to Senator Kefauver," 
he proclaimed, "and ask him to ap- 
point a new manager to handle me." 

But Sonny frowns upon any money 
changing hands with the transfer of 
the management. 

"Peppe has to give me up for noth- 
ing," he protested, "or else, I'll turn 
my back on boxing and go back to 
manual labor, the only other thing 
I can do." 

He said it, though, with the sly 
smile of a man who knows he is 
joking. "How naive can a guy be?" 
asked the sports-scribes, even as their 
fingers pecked out the big story. And 
nobody in the business regards Sonny 
Liston as exactly naive. 

So this is where the Great Sonny 
Liston Mystery stands as of this writ- 
ing. According to Ring magazine, 
"under the argument of rehabilita- 
tion, and having paid his debt to 
society, the imperfections in Liston's 
past may be waived, as they were in 
the case of Rocky Graziano and 

"But Liston's reported patrons pro- 
vide a puzzler since the elimination 
of undesirable influences in boxing 
management are most difficult to 
bring about." 

No real solution to the setting up 
a "front man" has been found, even 
if Frankie Carbo has been jailed, 
and Blinky Palermo was forced to 
join him at his enforced -vacation 

There is only one question that re- 

Is Sonny Liston worth the trouble? 

How good is he, really? 

When asked for an answer to this 
question, Teddy Brenner, veteran 
Madison Square Garden matchmaker, 
looked at the questioner pityingly, 
as though doubting the man's sanity. 

He then answered the question with 
a question: "Who would you pick 
to lick him?" 

Conditioner Jack ("Doc") Moore 
backed up Brenner by saying: "Sonny 
hasn't really opened up yet. Wait till 
he opens up! Then he'll be in a class 
all by himself." 

Other samplings of professional 
opinion produced answers like Bren- 
ner's and Moore's. And Sonny him- 
self Is supremely confident thai he 
ss the first truly qualified contender 
for the crown to appear on the scene 
since Joe Louis. 

Unfortunately for all concerned, the 
Mob also shares these views. And the 
Mob has never been generous about 
money with anybody except shoeshine 
boys, waiters, chorus girls and the 
widows of suddenly deceased ex- 

If there's a fighter around that 
somebody like Roy Cohn or Rocky 

Marciano figures he can clean up, say, 
$5,000,000 on, the Mob — with its 
unbeatable connections and persua- 
sive methods — can milk at least 
$15,000,000 from the same pair of 
gloves. So why should they give him 
up? Just to be nice? 

It's only fair to say, therefore, that 
even when Charles Liston does be- 
come a "free agent", to do as he 
pleases and fight whom he wants, 
there's going to be some little joker 
hidden in the woodpile. 

And only the naive will believe 
that his "liberation" is as complete 
as the involved parties will want to 
make it appear. 

Editor's Note: While the above 
story was going to press, the author's 
daring prediction seemed to be com- 
ing true already. Late reports say 
that Liston's manager, Peppe, has 
"given Sonny up". In other words, 
he allowed Liston to "buy" his con- 
tract back for $75,000. Considering 
that the fighter's contract would bring 
more than a million from other 
sources, and that Peppe has never 
been accused of being a philantropist, 
insider's laugh at what seems to be 
an obvious maneuver to make it look 
as if Sonny is finally free of "the 

., ■ . .■■■■ . . . ■ 


(Continued from Page 76) 


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As one voluptuous vixen from Vas- 
sar said: "I went in my first day here 
—and everybody looked at me as if 
I were crazy!" 

To someone who has never seen 
Fort Lauderdale during the yearly 
Collegiate Crush, an exact picture of 
the situation is almost impossible to 
convey. There's no other word for it 
but "fantastic." 

Ifs a carnal carnival of crowding, 
crushing college kids. The motels and 
hotels are so packed that there are 
sometimes 10 or more to a room. 
Cars are used for living quarters, and 
often you'll find two kids sleeping 
in the trunk space alone. 

And, of course, there are the 

The beaches are literally lined with 
bodies, day and night. Who needs a 
hotel room when you can just stretch 
out on the sand, preferably with a 
co-ed who will lull you to sleep by 
discussing the Second Law of Thermo- 

Jade Beach, to the north of town, is 
the most popular. It's called many 
names by the kids, but the good peo- 
ple of Fort Lauderdale boil all of its 
nicknames down into one that will 
pass the censors: Romance Beach. 

Couples heading for Jade Beach 
with blankets under their arms (that 
sand can be mighty rough on your 
back, honey) are one of Lauderdale's 
most familiar sights around Easter- 
time. What makes Jade Beach es- 
pecially attractive is that it is unlight- 
ed at night. There's nothing but the 
Moon over Miami to wink down on 
the down-to-earth hanky-panky that 
goes on, on the beach after dark. 

Beer binges are the second most 
popular pastime of the College Crowd. 
The bars along the seaside are cram- 
med with customers every minute they 
are open. Because so many of the 
visiting kids are under age, the bars 
are constantly in danger of selling 
booze to minors. To help them, ID 
(identification) cards are issued to 
all those over 21, and you've got to 
have your ID with you if you want to 
get served. But of course the cards 
are passed around, borrowed, etc., 
so that many are served anyway. 


And if you can't drink in a bar, 
what's to prevent loading up on bot- 
tles of beer and drinking on the 

The crush in bars like the Elbo 
Room is incredible. If you reach into 
your pocket for a handkerchief, you're 
apt to hear someone next to you give 
a startled yelp and look very indig- 
| nant or very inviting, depending on 

who it happens to be and the stats 
he or she is ill. 

This reporter was in the Elbo Room 
one night, when the floor was strewn 
with broken glass from smashed 
bottles and glasses. Yet many of the 
kids were dancing — in bare feet, 
pretending to be completely unaware 
(and maybe some were) of the blood 
flowing from open wounds as they 
shuffled and twisted their torsos erot- 
ieally in "the twist," one of the favor- 
ite dances here. 

Naturally, the decent citizens— con- 
sider the yearly student invasion only 
slightly better than a plague. They 
have been fighting against it for 
years, but it only grows bigger all the 

And this year it REALLY went to 

Part of the trouble this year was 
caused by the fact that Hollywood had 
finally gotten its hot little hand in 
the matter. As a result, a record- 
breaking mob of over 50,000 college 
kids swooped down on Fort Lauder- 
dale during the 1961 Easter holidays 
—bringing drinking and wenching, 
and riots and rape, to the town on a 
scale that even Fort Lauderdale citi- 
zens had never seen before. 

It seems someone in Movieland had 
heard about the annual trek of college 
clucks to Lauderdale, and, well— 

"In Fort Lauderdale, huh?" a big 
producer said. "Ain't there a beach in 
that burg? Everyplace in Florida's got 
a beach." 

"You sure know everything, boss," 
a scriptwriter said, in frank admira- 

"And college jerks go there. That 
means young dolls ... in bikinis . . . 
on a beach . . . and Joe Col'ege 
chasing them. What a story line! 
Ifs a natural!" 

"I'll knock 'em dead," a second 
script writer said. 

"I got a clip here," the first writer 
added. "'It says the kids neck on 
the beach at night." 

The producer's eyes lit up with th# 
fires of inspiration. 


And so, Hollywood decided to do 
the Fort Lauderdale story. The result 
was typical, sugar-coated, corny 90 
minutes of typical, corny Hollywood 
characters in typical, corny Hollywood 
settings. And it hit your local Itchora- 
mas under the title "Where The Boys 

The best thing about the movie was 
that if starred four sugar-and-spice 
packed bathing suits that kept a firm 
grip upon the breathtaking curves of 
Connie Francis, Dolores Hart, Paula 
Prentiss and (She b-a-d girl) Yvefta 

Mimieux (who plays "backseaft bingo" 
and comes to an untimely end as a 
result, just like film bad girls USED 
to do). 

Except for the title, anything else 
in the whole movie that resembles 
the real Fort Lauderdale situation in 
any way is strictly coincidental. 

Nonetheless, the fact that the num- 
ber of college kids who headed for 
Fort Lauderdale this year was way 
over normal was no doubt in part 
influenced by the movie. 

And that's where the boys v-ere, 
all right. In trying to explain th - -tots 
that broke out in the resort town, 
Mayor Edward Johns said that most 
of the commotion was caused by 
sheer "boredom". 

You can translate that "boredom" 
Into "lack of girls". For, while thous- 
ands of college cuties made the scene, 
the boys outnumbered them by at 
least 10-to-1. 

Now, of course, to some of these 
college babes — with their special 
training — the ratio of 10-to-l doesn't 
indicate a bad balance at all. They 
wouldn't even consider it an incon- 
venience. But all the girls weren't so 
accomodating, and thousands of hot- 
blooded fellows who'd come look- 
ing for an outlet for their pent up 
passions found they would have been 
much better off staying at home. 

They were bound to explode in one 
way or another. As one junior from 
Illinois University said: "What do they 
expect us to do? We drove 30 hours 
straight, 1,500 miles, and we didn't 
come here to sit in hotel rooms and 
play bridge!" 

And this boy didn't have as much 
to complain about as some others. 
He ; at least, had a hotel room. For 
those sleeping in cars, on back porch- 
es or on the beach, things were a 
lot worse. 

One 17-year-old Junior Miss voiced 
a common beef. "The bars are the 
only places that don't keep their rest 
rooms locked up," she said. "And 
you can't get into a bar unless you're 
21. So whafs a girl supposed to do?" 

"Ifs enough to make anybody want 
So riot," commented her pretty com- 
panion, who was looking uncomfort- 
able at the moment. 

What really set off the riots, how- 
ever, was the city's decision — due 
to the uncontrollably large number 
©ff students milling around — to close 
down Jade Beach at night, along with 
the bars that lined the area. 

Now the ones who didn't have 
hotel or motel rooms couldn't find 
open rest rooms, either, even if they 
were over 21! The supply of booze 
was thus drastically curtailed, also— 
and booze is one anecdote for bore- 

Worst of call, the one guy out of 
10 who maybe was lucky enough to 
find a co-ed with the old school spirit 
was unable to trot her off to un- 
lighted "Romance Beach" for a recrea- 
tion period. 


Three nights of rioting followed, 
while the students clamored that if 
the cops didn't open the beach, they'd 
take over the city. Which they pretty 
well had done already. 

On the first night the police tried 
to be polite with the milling, ag- 
gressive students. But, even with re- 
inforcements, their gentle ways were 
of no avail against the mob. 

So they got rough and had things 
pretty well under control — until a 
22-year-old physical education stu- 
dent from Minnesota's Mankato State 
Teacher's College climbed a traffic 
light pole and began doing stunts 
while he egged on the other kids. 
Police finally got this clown down 
and packed him in the cooler for 
a 70-day stretch. 

More rioting followed, however, 
despite the efforts of city officials to 
keep the kids busy with organized 
street dances and such. At the end 
of the three nights of rioting, cops 
had arrested over 500 and were 
handing out fines and sentences fas- 
ter than a chorus girl can fill up a 
date book. 

Then, finally, the Easter holidays 
were over, and the book was closed 
on Fort Lauderdale's sordid saga for 
another year. The "nice, clean kids" 
went back to school and the obvious 
things they had done — like rioting 
—were being glossed over, while little 
matters like rape and such were sup- 
pressed completely. 

As if the tragedies caused by this 
yearly Saturnalia of Sex and Alcohol 
can ever be forgotten or erased from 
the lives of those who were hurt by 

As one of the cops told HUSH- 
HUSH, "This gang is just a lot of good 
kids looking for fun! But I'll tell you 
this — my daughter stays home when 
they're in town. ! make sure of that!" 


There's another sad note to the 
Fort Lauderdale picture — and this, 
too, is never talked about by the 
local Chamber of Commerce. This 
concerns the number of teenage tarts 
who get their start in this torrid little 
town by the sea. 

Sometimes ifs mainly a matter of 
economics. Many co-eds who hit the 
holiday trail for "Where the boys 

it, I1W.O0 to IW8.W. Pay 

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are" don't realize how much h takes 
to live in a resort town. And even 
if they do, their folks couldn't give 
tfwni enough money anyway. 

As a result, they hit the beach with 
hardly enough to pay for their food 
bill, much less a hotel room — even 
if hotel rooms are available. Some 
solve this by sharing expenses. Only 
trouble there is that the cagey Lau* 
derdale motel and hotel owners take 
great pains to make sure that each 
person who stays overnight in a room 
pavs the full rate. 

So word has gotten around the 
campuses that many of the co-eds 
are easy picking — especially those 
who are low in cash and don't have 
a place to sleep. The boys begin look- 
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they had been giving away for noth- 
ing back on the campus now brings 
them the price of a hotel room and 
maybe a couple of steaks thrown 
in to boot! 

Well, if Joe College is good for a 
sawbuck or two for a fast roll on 
the sands in the moonlight, the girls 
begin to wonder what the well- 
heeled tourists and local Good Time 
Charlies might be good for? A bit of 
research sooti gives them the answer, 
and before long they find that, with 
what could hardly be called much 
extra effort, they are living in a style 
that suits them much better than the 
old college grind. 

They loll around on the beach all 
day, and in the hotels and motels 
all night. And when business gets 
slack in Fort Lauderdale, Miami is a 
mere 25 miles away. And thus, each 
year, a new crop of hustlers is born, 

As for the good citizens of Fort 
Lauderdale — what do they think 
about this disgraceful exhibition that 
they open their town to every year? 

"Time", the magazine that would 
rather be clever than accurate,, and 
which always loves to end an article 
with a well-rounded, sophmorically 
clover twist of words — no matter 
how much they stretch or distort the 
facts to do so — finished off a brief 
item about the recent Fort Lauderdale 
riots with: 

"Thousands of the collegians vowed 
never to return. Fort Lauderdale 
hoped the vow would be kept." 

The hell you say! if Fort Lauder* 
dale didn't want these college capers, 
they would have been ended long 
ago. The reason the town welcomes 
them each year is given by "Time" 
itself, in the same item, when it says 
"cash registers busily jangled". 

Looking deeper info the matter 
than "Time" has time to, one dis- 
covers that, even though the college 
boys cost Fort Lauderdale an estimat- 
ed $35,000 this year in extra police 
salaries and in cleaning up the messes 
made, the Chamber of Commerce was 
quite satisfied with the final out- 
come. And why not? 

You take 50,000 kids. If each one 
stays only two days (many stayed a 
week or more), and spends only $10 a 
day (not at all hard to do when beer 
is 50 cents a bottle and a room is at 
least $10 a night from each occu- 
pant), the net total extracted from 
the lot in those two days would be 

Is it any wonder then, that Fort 
Lauderdale tolerates this monstrous 
yearly blowout — and carefully sup- 
presses all the bad aspects of it that 
it can? 

They might be only college kids 
out for some "fun" — but they're a 
gold mine to the town whose three 
main industries have become booze, 
sex and lodgings (for those who come 
to booze and sex around a bit)! 


(Continued from Page 91 

so In the minds of its peoples. 

You'd have a hard time if you 
tried to locate the place in your gazet- 
teer. Ifs behind God's back. Even a 
few decades ago, it was accessible 
only on foot or by carts. A mail coach 
used to stop there once a week. 

In 1936, the Nazis hit upon the 
wide, empty space around Baum- 

holder and turned it into the world's 
largest drill grounds for their Wehr- 
macht. Germany's defeat first emptied 
those grounds, then filled them with 
bored French occupation troops who 
set up an artillery school. 

Never a lively place, it became a 
ghost town under the French. For 
years, after 1945, it virtually vanish- 

ed from the globe. 

But today Baumholder is definitely 
back on the map! Ifs a tight little, 
muddy metropolis of morbid maneu« 
vers and macabre mysteries. 

This year, the town could celebrate 
its tenth anniversary as Germany's 
Number 1 sin-town. It was in 1951 
that the first American troops arrived 
near Baumholder. The sleepy little 
spot then suddenly found its place 
under the sun, its mission in life. It 
lost its drowsy calm overnight. It 
blossomed out as an oversized man- 
trap to which sex-starved, thirsty GIs 
were quick to beat a path. 

In the wake of the war, there had 
been places like Baumholder. Kaiser- 
slautern, for instance, and Worms 
and Bitburg. Now those others are 
gone. They were closed down and 
cleaned up, returned to the staid 
stability that used to characterize 
them before. 

Baumholder is the only Gl sin town 
that survives in Europe. 

Today there are up to 30,000 Amer- 
ican boys stationed in the nearby 
NATO camp. They draw up to $3,000,- 
000 each month. This is about 12 mil- 
lion marks— an astronomical sum— hn 
local currency. 

The vast majority of these GIs cold 
shoulder Baumholder and its lasciv- 
ious lure. They live with their families 
in neat residential quarters or spend 
their time-off playing or studying at 
the camp. They hold on to their 
money, banking it at the American 
Express branch on the reservation. 

But there are still hundreds, if not 
thousands, of suckers left for Baum- 
holder. They go on pilgrimages to its 
pleasure domes, their pockets bulging 
with money to burn, caring little how 
it (or who) gets burned, as long as it 
buys a drink or a dame. 


The whole town subsists on this one 
industry— a gigantic catering affair, 
Baumholder caters with consummate 
skill and gusto to the carnal needs of 
virile young men, its smug natives 
pocketing the profits that flow from 
wasted passions. 

And behind it all squats the Syn- 

This is a small coterie of reckless, 
ruthless men. They pull the strings 
from far away, much in the manner 
in which the vice barons of the dirty 
Thirties used to manipulate sex and 
sin in the United States. 

Baumholder is a festering sore— 
a wide open scandal that, however, 
nobody seems willing to recognize 
for what it is. 

This reporter has just cased the big 
joint— its dirty bars and hidden rooms 

where drunken sex h rcsmpoBTf. 
This is what 8 found: 

• Absentee landlords, represented 
by local stringers, operate the night- 
life of Baumholder with all the time- 
honored tricks and methods of fam- 
Miar sin towns. 

• There are up to 700 imported 
whores at large in Baumholder, doub- 
ling as B-girls and part-time prosti- 

• The town is entirely under the 
speli of the all-mighty dollar, lighting 
up like a Christmas tree each time it 
is pay day in the NATO camp, staying 
Hi for a fortnight, until the last cent 
iis coaxed from the Ame rears GIs. 

• II SI kit love, not entirely confined 
So the pros, is having its tragic con- 
sequences in the rapid growth of the 
town's illegitimate birth rate, which is 
five limes the average in the ress of 
West Germany. 

® Venereal disease is spread by 
She itinerant camp followers, creafcir^ 
a public health problem with which 
iifoe authorities are incapable of cop- 

• There are only two vice cops in 
■own, and they seem to be completely 
blinded to the rampant vice atl a- 
round them. 

• The city fathers tolerate every- 
thing with shrugs and smug smiies, 
filling their coffers with tax money 
from this bacchanal. 

Who is responsible for this condit- 

The residents blame the Syndicate 
for everything. The bartenders say 
tfs the presence of "the girls" that 
makes the town such an abysmal sin 
trap. The girls say, starry eyed: "Why 
pick on us? We're here to take care 
of a need. Blame the Amis! They are 
the ones who want it this way!" 

Ifs a vicious circle. Spokesmen of 
the 8th Army finger the Syndicate, as 
well as the authorities of West Ger- 
many who let it operate Europe's most 
vicious sin-town side by side with the 
biggest NATO camp. 

Said a colonel at the camp: "We are 
giving the boys everything they need 
for their bodies and souls. Bowling, 
for instance, and correspondence 
courses. We have no jurisdiction over 
the town. It would be impractical to 
place the whole neighborhood out of 
bounds. After all, a boy on a week- 
end pass needs a place where he can 

It all began in 1951. Until then, 
Baumholder was a plum of the French 
army. Somehow French soldiers prov- 
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dence courses— Ihe age old need of 
girls. The French high command met 
the problem head on, in the tradition- 
al French manner. They established a 
string of supervised brothels to which 
the POILUS could repair whenever 
teased by the urge. It proved the 
ideal solution of a problem that is 
rampant wherever soldiers congre- 

The girls in those brothels were 
strictly supervised. Their fees were 
set by the military authorities, and 
no tipping was allowed. Army doctors 
examined the inmates twice a week. 
The town itself had those spots of 
shame hidden from sight. The towns- 
people simply ignored them as they 
fried to live their accustomed, philis- 
fine life. 

Then, in 1951, the French suddenly 
left and NATO took over the huge 
drill grounds. They were soon filled 
with American troops, mostly boys in 
their late teens, smart in their uni- 
forms, far away from the staid res- 
trictions of their hometowns, their poc- 
kets bulging with dollars. 

^he situation changed overnightl 


Virtually the first official act of 
the 8th Army command was to close 
down the "official" brothels. Camp 
Commandant East told a German re- 
porter: "We simply cannot tolerate 
them. Our women at home would 
raise holy hell if they found out that 
we operated those brothels for the 
boys. Besides, there is the issue of 
civil liberties. We have to respect the 
civil rights, even of these prostitutes." 

The abrupt closing of the brothels 
brought a sex wave in its wake. 
Groups of GIs literally invaded Baum- 
holder and, in the words of an eye- 
witness from those days, "accosted 
every woman they met in the streets." 

Dollar-flaunting soldier boys in 
mufti tried to foist themselves on the 
legitimate ladies of the town, literally 
begging them for "just a little love." 
There were cases of rape, most of 
them by mutual consent, no matter 
what the "victim" claimed afterwards. 

The new need of Baumholder be- 
came widely known in circles inte- 
rested in such news, and the demand 
was soon met by supply, as free-lanc- 
ing prostitutes (most of them diseased 
and super-annuated) descended upon 
Baumholder in search of the Amis' 

Then the news was picked up by 
the antennae of certain mysterious 
gents, waiting in ambush in Munich— 
and even beyond the borders of Ger- 
many, in Zurich, Switzerland— to cap- 
italize on the rampant need. 

Who were these faceless gents? 

The first organization of this kind 
was born in a displaced persons camp 
near Schlachtensee. In the beginning, 
it was engaged chiefly in the peddling 
of contraband goods, bought from 
wayward GIs— coffee, cigarets, cho- 
colate, nylon hose, contraceptives, to 
mention only a few of the more pop- 
ular items on the black market. 

The illicit trade was especially 
brisk in dollars. 

The boom of their trade enabled the 
"organization" to move out of the 
DP camp and establish itself in style 
in a string of suburban villas near 

The Bavarian capital soon became 
the center of these activities. On 
Moehl Street in Munich, for instance, 
the "organization" ran Europe's big- 
gest black market in foreign curren- 
cies, raking in enormous profits. But 
the "organization" was still loosely 
organized. It was a free-for-all, with 
shadowy figures everywhere whose 
greed seemed to be insatiable. 

Gradually, more powerful indivi- 
duals sneaked onto the scene. They 
were led by a mysterious stranger 
whose exact identity is still unknown 
today. Under his leadership, the 
Syndicate was born, with headquar- 
ters in Zurich, Switzerland. 

It was like an octopus. Its tenta- 
cles reached from Southern Italy to 
Scandinavia, from the Free World to 
behind the Iron Curtain. 


The Syndicate handled everything. 
It monopolized the old black market 
with its contraband goods. It ped- 
dled narcotic drugs. If virtually cor- 
nered this part of the liquor market, 
especially in areas close to American 
military establishments. The system 
was simple. The Syndicate took over 
old bars and opened a string of new 
ones. Everything was highly "Ameri- 
canized," reminding of "home"— with 
neon lights reminiscent of Main Street, 
with juke boxes blaring out all the 
familiar tunes. 

Then came the girls. The Syndicate 
extended its control to prostitution. 
Any girl who wanted to survive in 
this new order had to buckle down 
to the Syndicate and pay tribute. 

This was the situation already in 
1952, when those thousands of GIs 
arrived at Baumholder and went out 
on the little town, eager to paint it 

As soon as the Syndicate heard of 
the town's new prosperity, it moved 
in, but only indirectly. Instead of 
taking a hand in the "development" 
of Baumholder's "entertainment in- 
dustry," the Syndicate agreed merely 
to finance the bonanza, for a sub- 

stantial share in the gross. 

Anybody who decided to open a 
bar in Baumholder knew where to go 
in Munich or Zurich to get the money 
needed for the venture. They knew 
where to "rent" a juke box for the 
place and how to procure all the 
liquor needed to take care of the 
growing demand. 

The Syndicate was in favor of free 
enterprise, but it was a favor that 
had a price tag on it. Representatives 
of the Syndicate bought up houses, 
and even barns, in town, then rented 
them at exhorbitant rates to enter- 
prising newcomers who wanted to 
turn them into bars. 

The showcase of Baumholder is the 
Hotel Post, owned by the Bresius fam- 
ily for 200 years. Its big ballroom 
was rented to a couple of operators 
from Frankfurt, fronting for the Syn- 
dicate. And so, already in 1952, the 
first "American bar" came into being 
in Baumholder. 

Called the Hawaii Bar, it is still 
there, the swankiest place in town, 
catering to the better type of clientele. 
Chichier than the rest, the Hawaii Bar 
operates along familiar lines. It em- 
ploys nine B-girls (they are called 
ANIMIERDAMEN in Baumholder). 
Their job is to make the Amis drink 
as much as the traffic can bear. 

Then came others— the Manhattan 
Bar, for instance, and the Bop-City 
Bar— and many more, all resplendent 
with American names, and selling the 
drinks Americans like— from straight 
Scotch to the various members of the 
Collins family. 

Gambling started in back rooms. 
Junk pushers appeared among the 
customers. Baumholder was opening 
up real wide. 

The Syndicate remained absent 
from the scene— except for a single 
phase of this combined operation. It 
retains ironclad control over "the 
girls" and, through them, over the 
most sordid features of this sin-town. 

Take the case of the pretty brunette, 
for instance Renate Ladewig by name, 
known as Reni to her innumerable 
transient friends in Baumholder and 
places beyond. Today Reni is a per- 
manent fixture of the town. A native 
of East Berlin, she fled from the Soviet 
zone, then worked her passage as 
best she could all the way to Frank- 
furt, where she got herself a job as a 
waitress in a crummy little cafe. 

It was there that the Syndicate 
found her. 


The Syndicate reached out for Reni 
Ladewig in the person of a heavy-set, 
swarthy, round-faced, immaculately 
groomed, middle-aged man. Appar- 
ently he was only a guest in the cafe 

where Rem worked. 

Ira reality, he was there on a scout- 
ing expedition, one of the Syndicate's 
many talent scouts who recruit girls 
like Reni for Baum holders foreign 
legion of babes. 

Other scouts are busy elsewhere 
— in Italy, for example, in Denmark 
and Holland, but especially in Ger- 
many. They are after shiftless, young 
female refugees from behind the Iron 
Curtain— helpless Hungarians, scared 
Czechs, pretty little Poles. Such girls 
are the easiest to catch, for most of 
them have no place to go anyway, 
and many don't even have a roof 
over their heads. 

Reni Ladewig was such a sitting 
duck for the Syndicate's scout. 

"Like your job?" he asked her. 

"So-so," she said, with a shrug of 
her round shoulders. 

"How much do you make here?" 
the scout asked. 

"Oh— 300 to 400 marks a month, 
mostly from tips." 

"Thafs ridiculous," the man feigned 
annonyance. "And a pretty girl like 
you! Would you like to make, lefs 
say, a thousand marks?" 

Visions of affluence suddenly flick- 
ered before Rent's hazel eyes. Beauti- 
ful dresses. A car of her own, maybe. 
A cosy, little room where she could 
dream her best Sunday dreams. 

"Is it an offer?" she asked, eagerly, 

"Well," the man said, "let's eall i* 
a possibility." 

Then the deal was signed and seal- 
ed. Reni was caught in the dragnet 
of the Syndicate. 

The man gave her a couple of hun- 
dred marks and a bus ticket to Baum- 
hoider. A few days later, Reni Lade- 
wig arrived at her destination, keep- 
ing this smutty rendezvous with her 
special destiny. She was met at the 
bus by a Syndicate pimp and assigned 
promptly to one of the bars, as a B- 
girl to boost the consumption. 

She was given her instructions— 
the ropes weren't too difficult to 
learn. "Your job is to separate the GIs 
from their money," the pimp told her 
with a ghoulish grin. "We call it 'de- 
lousing' here in Baumhofder. Do you 
think you'll be good at 'delousing J 
those Amis?" 

She was shown how to juggle the 
glasses at her table, to increase by 
such hocus pocus the number of drinks 
»be hapless GIs had to pay for, even 
when they never consumed them in 

There were other tricks, too— the 
art of overturning a half-filled glass 
so the GE at the table had to buy 
another drink; the science of shaking 
a champagne bottle so that most of 
its contents fizzed on to the floor 
when its cork got popped. 



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be refunded if I return the garment within 30 


□ Payment Enclosed n Send COD 

(We prepay postage, except COD's) 
D l encSose 50c for 4 garter attachments. 

Name _ , 

Address ...„ , „ 

City. state 

She was told how to eoax the rank 
iFrom her new friends, and how to ad- 
just consumption to the pay scale of 
the American army. 

Reni thus learned a lot— but it was 
knowledge useful only in Baumholder. 

Girls like Reni form the resident 
contingent of Baumholder's B-girls. 
They represent a kind of aristocracy. 
But that mirage of beautiful dresses, 
or that cosy room, and of a car all 
her own remained exactly that. The 
1000 marks she hoped to earn never 
seemed to accumulate. 

Only a few girls, who star in bars 
as well as beds, ever make any real 
money in Baumholder. The competi- 
tion is too tough! 

On the first day of every month, in 
the dawn's early light, when payday 
in the NATO camp starts the hectic 
sin-cycle down in town, there is the 
"influx." From far and wide, hun- 
dreds of chippies flock to the little 
Sown for what's called the "road 
show." A few drive up in their own 
cars, but most of them come by 
busses that disgorge their human car- 
go with extra special runs. 


Then the fortnight orgy gets under- 

Usually there are some 700 to 800 
girls in town for that booming fort- 
night, to take care of hundreds if not 
thousands of GIs. The turnover is 
fast. A familiar face quickly recedes, 
to be replaced by unfamiliar ones. 
There is no time for emotions or senti- 
ments. This is strictly business. It's 
ealled the "rabbit run." 

The set prices are low, but the fee 
isn't the only revenue these girls col- 
lect. The Gl's usually get down to sex 
after tours of the bars which leave 
them mighty high and no longer with 
a firm control of their actions. The 
girls then help themselves to their 
wallets and often take their whole 
contents, which might amount to a 
hapless Gl's whole monthly pay. 

Anesthetized by the liquor, most of 
the boys just look on with a grin, 
hardly knowing whafs going on. 

The obscene orgy continues night 
after night. But by the 15th, the slump 
sets in. Only because by then there 
is hardly any money left in Gl pockets 
to pay for this extravaganza. 

No money, no fun! It's as simple 
and businesslike as that! 

Baumholder's fabulous prosperity 
isn't built on the cuff. 

After the 15th of each month, the 
bars become virtually deserted. Most 
of the dirty gambling rooms shutter 
up. The transient girls leave town, 
only to return again two weeks later, 

to begin exactly where they left off. 
A trip to Baumholder isn't a pleas- 
ant mission. 

It isn't a faith-lifting experience to 
watch the 100 to 120 big, drunken 
brawls every night during those re- 
curring two weeks of boom; to ob- 
serve teams of MPs, patroling the 
place in jeeps, as they collect nice 
American kids, their faces flushed 
with liquor and sin, from the ghastly 
gutters of Baumholder. 

Hovering over the whole scene, like 
an ominous cloud floating high in an 
angry sky, is the Syndicate. It's the 
power behind all these sordid doings, 
the real force that makes Baumholder 
tick and carry on. 

How long will conditions like these 
be allowed to continue? 

Is the Syndicate really so powerful 
that no governmental or municipal 
authority can break its sway? 

Why doesn't the regime in Bonn do 
something about Baumholder? 

And what keeps the American au- 
thorities from cleaning up the mess? 
In the final analysis, all observers 
agree that the MPs are doing a good 
job policing the boys under their juris- 
diction; and that an educational drive 
up in the camp against the sin-traps 
of Baumholder reduced attendance 
by GIs downtown to an unavoidable, 
rock-bottom minimum. 

But the real solution of the problem 
of Baumholder is beyond the powers 
of the NATO people in this big camp. 
This is a problem for the Baumholders 
to solve. 

You can hear them from time to 
time, squeamishly protesting the de- 
gradation of their honorable town. 
You can see the two vice cops of 
Baumholder making a few token ar- 
rests once in a while. There are raids, 
too, but there aren't any teeth in 
them. The owners of these bars are 
virtually immune from persecution. 
And the city fathers actually dread 
the day when this fabulous bonanza 
might come to an end, reducing the 
tax revenue of the city, now counted 
in millions a year to what the citizens 
of Baumholder themselves will have 
to pay. 

An irate observer who showed this 
reporter around, and pointed out the 
most glaring inequities of Baumhold- 
er, remarked: 

"What the hell can you do? You 
can't just close down the town and 
ruin its pretty little racket! Maybe the 
only solution would be to move the 
NATO camp away from the outskirts 
of Baumholder. 

"1 bet you," he sighed, "the morn- 
ing after there wouldn't be a barten- 
der left to mix a phony Martini or a 
tart to tickle a Gl chin. And you know 

what? Baumholder would amply de- 
serve such a fate. 

"After all, Sodom and Gomorrah 
also had their day. But look whaft 
happened to them in the end!" 

Perish the thought. 

There must be a simpler way— other 
then by repeating biblical history— 
to end the Baumholder boom once 
and for all! 

Only nobody m authority seems 
able to think of one- 


(Continued from Page 21 ) 

with a passionate campus pervert who 
made him do all sorts of "things" he, 
in his own normal and prudish ways, 
regarded as wrong and immoral. 

Under the impact of that strange 
experience, X soured on sex. He could 
not work up the feelings a man needs 
to qualify for intercourse. 

In his hypnotic trance, X confessed 
his fears and misgivings, and supplied 
details of the experience that had left 
him sexually numb in body, though 
not in soul. 

As soon as Dr. Kline had his clue, 
he brought Mr. X out of the hypnotic 
trance. At a following session he re- 
hypnotized him. The doctor then 
took X for a pleasurable ride on the 
magic carpet of somnambulant sex. 

This new experience, under hypno- 
sis, was projected into the future. X 
was married to the girl he loved and 
craved, and, in the privacy of their 
bedchamber, had all the sexual ad- 
ventures he had dreaded because of 
the shock of his earlier experience. 

They no longer scandalized him or 
filled him with prudish protest. His 
hypnosis-induced sex play was proper 
and prudent. For, in it, he was mar- 
ried to his sex partner — and any- 
thing goes in the marriage bed. 

The treatment paid prompt divi- 
dends. Mr. X moved from hypnosis 
straight to the altar. And his wife 
has had no reason to complain about 
her husband's manly prowess, 


The case of young Mr. X points 
up one of the latest revelations of 
medical science — the effectiveness 

€>f hypnosis, not merely lor treating 
the symptoms of, but for actually cur- 
ing, impotence in men and frigidity 
m women. 

Hypnotic therapy is producing 
revolutionary results in every area of 
sex problems, even licking apparent 
sterility and what the medics call 
"habitual abortions" — miscarriages 
in the layman's language. 

A woman coded "Mrs. W" in her 
case report, married for 10 years, had 
been pregnant four times during that 
decade, but never succeeded in carry- 
ing her condition to its familiar con- 

Deeply disturbed by her recurrent 
miscarriages, and sincerely anxious to 
bear a child of her own, Mrs. W 
took her plight to Dr. Abraham 
Weinberg, a distinguished Park Ave- 
nue specialist. 

The doctor first sought to find the 
source of her affliction in physical 
causes. But a check-up showed that 
Mrs. W was a perfectly healthy 
woman in every respect, with no ap- 
parent physical reasons for her habi- 
tual abortions. 

Dr. Weinberg then put her on hor- 
mone therapy, using the new proges- 
tine drugs that perform miracles in 
cases like this. But the drugs did not 
work on Mrs. W. 

She was then kept in bed during 
pregnancy, but that did not work 

In the end, Dr. Weinberg decided 
to resort to hypnosis. Under hypnosis 
Mrs. W revealed that her mother had 
died in child-birth and that she;, her- 
self, was frantic with fear that she 
would meet the same fate. 

Keeping Mrs. W under hypnosis, 
the doctor suggested to her that she 
would give birth to her child without 
the slightest complications, and that 
she had no reason to be afraid of 

At the time of her treatment, Mrs. 
W was pregnant again. Thanks to 
the hypnotic therapy, she was de- 
Vivered of a baby girl only a few 
months later. 

Thus, using hypnosis as their major 
tool, doctors now score phenomenal 
victories in clearing up all sorts of 
sexual troubles. According to Dr. 
Lewis R. Welberg, medical director 
of the Post-Graduate Center for Psy- 
chotherapy, most people suffering 
from sexual problems are perfectly 
sane and sound in body and soul. 
But they have blocks in their minds 
that prevent them from living norma! 
sex lives. 

In the past, such blocks needed 
long and costly psychiatric treatment. 
Even then, conventional psycho- 
therapy was not always successful in 
producing a cure. Aside from psy- 


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cfaotherapy, all sorts of drugs were 
used (including massive hormone 
treatments prescribed by ethical 
medics and dangerous aphrodisiacs 
administered by reckless quacks ) . 
They, too, proved ineffectual in an 
alarming number of cases, while ofteo 
causing serious side effects that ag- 
gravated the basic affliction. 

Then hypnosis was tried! 

It produced miracle cures that were 
both quick and satisfactory! 

Already today, thousands of doctors 
have tens of thousands of case his- 
tories on file to show how properly 
applied hypnosis, under medical super- 
vision, can lick sexual problems once 
and for all, actually in an estimated 
90 percent of all cases. 

This is a fantastic new wrinkle in 
sexology, if only because such prob- 
lems are far more widespread than 
commonly realized. 


Expert studies show that of 44,133,- 
000 American white males in age 
groups ranging from 15 to 59 years — 
in what is generally regarded as the 
prime of life — some 17 million suf- 
fer from some degree of impotence. 

According to competent gynecolo- 
gists, frigidity is even more wide- 
spread in our female population. As 
a matter of fact, the Kinsey report 
showed that frigidity is so rampant 
that 80 percent of all American white 
females in their presumably best years 
suffer from it to a greater or lesser 

Sexual inabilities represent an ur- 
gent social, as well as a medical prob- 
lem. They are of vast concern to 
adult men and women, since they 
will often wreck all hopes of marital 

To be sure, impotence in particu- 
lar can result from deformities 
left from certain diseases; from in- 
juries; or the destruction of the whole 
of both testicles. But such, and simi- 
lar, strictly physical disorders (which 
render intercourse painful, difficult 
or altogether impossible) are the ex- 
ceptions to the rule. 

Impotence can also be a secondary 
phenomenon, caused by drug adic- 
tion or alcoholism. Recent researches 
show that excessive smoking also has 
a debilitating influence on man's 

Impotence appears to be more com- 
mon among intellectuals than manual 
workers. From this the medics deduce 
that intense mental concentration, 
even without obvious exhaustion, 
causes partial, temporary impotence. 

As Dr. George Somervilie, a dis- 
tinguished British specialist, put it, 

behind most impotence "there is al- 
most invariably something amiss with 
the mental attitude either to sex itself 
or else to the particular individual of 
the opposite sex concerned. Closely 
allied to this mental attitude which 
has in it an element of distaste or 
disgust are states of mind in which 
there is present fear in some form — 
fear of venereal disease, fear of an 
unwanted pregnancy, fear of causing 
pain." Any of these can act as brakes 
on a man's potency. 

A man (or woman) can be per- 
fectly normal in his (or her) attitude 
to sex, but the attitude to a specific 
sexual partner may not be what it 
should be. A prominent New Yorker 
who was married to one of the cele- 
brated beauties of high society proved 
incapable of sexual intercourse with 
his lovely wife. After innumerable 
trials and errors, he came to the con- 
clusion that he was impotent. 

But when, during a vacation in 
Europe, he became involved in a flam- 
ing affair with a pretty Parisienne, 
he turned out to be exceptionally 
potent. The couple then took tbeit 
case to a phychiatrist who reluctantly 
advised them to sue for divorce. 
Analysis revealed that this husband, 
while in love with his wife, was re- 
pelled by her body. It was far too 
skinny for his taste. In his subcon- 
scious he came to associate her body 
with a skeleton, an association that 
resulted in macabre fantasies, depriv- 
ing him of his virility when it was 
most needed if he wanted a normal 
sex life with his spouse. 

After the divorce, both partners re- 
married, and there is now no trace 
of impotence or frigidity in their 

Cold women, who often helplessly 
watch their otherwise happy mar- 
riages wrecked by their frigidity, 
sometimes blossom out as regular pas- 
sion flowers when married to other 

Unsatisfactory attitudes to sexual 
partners may be due to a variety of 
causes. The affections may be sub- 
consciously (or, indeed, consciously) 
fixed upon some other individuals; 
or there may be a feeling of inferior- 
ity, not necessarily in sexual matters, 
but redounding to the sexual disad- 
vantage or at least discomfort of the 

The treatment of impotence and 
frigidity used to be abandoned to 
physicians who frequently enlisted the 
aid of psychiatrists. But despite a 
growing preoccupation with the prob- 
lem , and a steady increase i a the 
number of cases actually under treat- 
ment, not much progress was made 
— until hypnotic therapy came eg be 


Such treatments were first used — 
somewhat haphazardly — outside the 
medical profession, by hypnotises. 
Lacking medical training and a round- 
ed knowledge of all the factors its- 
volved, treatment by these men in- 
volved risks even when it appeared 
to be successful in dealing with the 

More recently, qualified medical 
men entered the field and hypnotic 
therapy became an accepted technique 
of the medical profession. 

Hypnosis is one of the mysterious 
phenomena connected with the human 
mind. It is a special form of sleep 
induced by an "operator" who sug- 
gests the idea of sleep in various 

The so-called hypnotic state has 
three distinctly separate phases which, 
when the hypnosis is properly han- 
dled, merge into each other. 

The first is that of trance (cata- 
lepsy), in which the limbs, though 
rigid, may be moulded at the will 
of the "operator." 

The second is that of lethargy, m 
which the whole body appears placid 
and the patient unconscious. 

The third phase is artificial som- 
nambulism, in which the patient is 
extremely susceptible to suggestion. 

For a long time, hypnosis was gen- 
erally regarded as a vaudeville trick. 
It was actually frowned upon by the 
medical profession, even as an off- 
beat accessory to other therapies. 

It came into its own some 60 years 
ago, first in France, then in Vienna, 
In Paris, it was used by Drs. Charcot 
and Janet for the investigation and 
then the treatment of hysteria. In 
Vienna, Dr. Sigmund Freud, the 
father of. psychoanalysis, elaborated 
on Charcot's methods and developed 
a hypnotic method, not merely for 
the investigation, but actually for the 
cure of hysteria. 

In Freud's expert hands, hypnosis 
proved highly successful in demon- 
strating the emotional basis of hys- 
teria (morbid emotionalism that 
manifests itself in paroxysms of laugh- 
ing and crying alternately, in abnor- 
mal excitement, and other nervous af- 
fections ) . 

Using hypnosis as his probing tooi^ 
Freud proved that hysteria resulted 
from a conflict between the libido 
and sexual repression, converting psy- 
chic into physical manifestations. 

In this country, hypnosis was rare- 
ly used by accredited medics, until 
remarkable incidents outside the medi- 
cal profession made it impossible to 
ignore it any longer. Among the 
trail-blazing pioneers who did expert 
ments with hypnosis in theit medical 

practice, one of the best known was 
the late Dr. E. I. Lederman of Balti- 
more, Md. He scored impressive re- 
sults with it in his own specialty, 

Later it was used as a pain-killer, 
mostly in child-birth, and for the 
treatment of certain social diseases — 
such as alcoholism. A few doctors 
applied it in the treatment of obesity, 
successfully ^'persuading" their over- 
weight patients to eat less. 

A few years ago, the American 
Medical Association decided at last 
to make the medical application of 
hypnosis the subject of a thorough 
scrutiny. The AMA appointed a 
special Committee on Hypnosis, and 
named Dr. Samuel G. Weber, a 
prominent psychiatrist, to head the 
study group, with members represent- 
ing both the pros and the cons. 

Their report was presented at the 
I960 convention of the AMA, when 
thousands of doctors from all over 
the United States gathered in Atlantic 
City, N. J., to hear the latest find- 
ings in medicine. 

The Weber committee's report on 
hypnosis proved the high point of the 
convention. "On the muggy after- 
noon," a reporter wrote, "that a panel 
of physicians and psychiatrists dis- 
cussed the uses of hypnosis in medi- 
cine, there was standing room only 
in the large auditorium." 

The committee approved hypnotic 
therapy as a psychiatric technique 
virtually without reservations, provid- 
ed that it was handled by competent 
physicians, not necessarily psychia- 
trists. After that, medical hypnosis 
was accepted enthusiastically by the 
whole profession. Today it is esti- 
mated that more than 10,000 doctors, 
dentists and psychologists use hyp- 
notic technique in their daily prac- 

Such hypnotic therapy provides the 
doctor with an invaluable new tool. 
It enables him to penetrate to his 
patient's subsconcious — "to dispel 
fear, reject disturbing thoughts, re- 
vamp attitudes, control desires, 
nourish hope." 

In the somnambulist phase of hyp- 
nosis, the patient may be made to 
perform actions which were impos- 
sible to him in his waking state. He 
may be enabled to remember inci- 
dents which previously were beyond 
recall. Hidden or repressed memories 
may be discovered in this way. 

Suggestions given in the hypnotic 
state are carried out subsequently 
when awake, but without any memory 
of the hypnotic command. 

Today, medical hypnosis opens ex- 
citing new vistas and offers a new 
therapeutic approach to a number of 

ailments which heretofore defied 
treatment and cure. 

Thus hypnosis is now used in the 
treatment of high blood pressure and 
for the cure of several skin ailments. 
It was found that it is effective in the 
elimination of warts — in actual fact, 
they can be simply hypnotized away. 
More and more, hypnosis is used 
as a non-metabolic pain-killer — in 
minor surgeries and in child-birth. 
It was found to be extremely potent 
in the treatment of both alcoholism 
and obesity, when suggestions play 
an overwhelmingly important role in 

But medical hypnosis is probably 
most effective in what can be called 
sexual rehabilitation — in breaking 
down the barriers that block proper 
and normal attitudes to sex. 

Any person who discovers in him- 
self or herself symptoms of impotence 
or frigidity now has an invaluable 
helper in the medical hypnotist, the 
physician who will attack the prob- 
lem with hypnosis and most likely 
solve it to the patients' complete 

With the rapid spread of medical 
hypnosis — and, especially, with sus- 
picions still remaining that used to 
mitigate against the technique — the 
question naturally arises: 

Is hypnosis safe? Are there any 
risks involved in its use? 

The AJVIA's Committee on Hyp- 
nosis proved to the profession's com- 
plete satisfaction that "hypnotic 
therapy in skilled hands is not only 
one of the most effective but also 
one of the safest procedures in medi- 
cine." It can be stated unequivocally 
that it carries "a minimum of risk 
to the patient." 

The acceptance of hypnosis as a 
proper medical procedure is creating 
a revolution, not only in the treat- 
ment of many ailments, but also in 
medical education. Concurrent with 
its acceptance of hypnosis, the Ameri- 
can Medical Association resolved thai 
hypnotic techniques be introduced 
into the curriculum in medical schools 
throughout the United States. 

Thousands of established physicians 
are now taking post-graduate courses 
in hypnotism. And a new generation 
of medics is leaving school, fully 
trained in the use of this miraculous 
medical tool. 

With hypnosis becoming an ac- 
cepted and widely practiced therapy 
for the treatment and cure of im- 
potence and frigidity, innumerable 
marriages will be saved, and happi- 
ness will be restored to. countless 
men and women who feared they 
would have to live out thei<r lives as ! 
incurable sexual cripples. 


(Continued from Pcge 14) 

homos who peddle a twisted brand o? 
wrong-way sex in an effort to lure 
new recruits into the growing ranks 
of potential fags. 

As another public service, m an 
effort to alert the public to the menace 
of these bubble-boy mags, HUSH- 
HUSH is exposing these "exposed" 
queers in their most indecent ex- 
posure to date. 

Just dig this drivel. 
On the title page of MANORAMA 
the editors coyly confess: "MANO- 
RAMA does not consider itself a body 
builder's magazine, although it is di- 
rected to the body builder as a source 
of inspiration ..." 
Inspiration is right) 
And what could be more Inspir- 
ing to the queery-dreary darlings than 
the photo of a grinning bare-chested 
cutie snapped in the act of unzipp- 
ing his pants. 

Talk about inspiration! 
"Have you seen our hat depart- 
ment, sir?" is the coy caption under 
the photo of a burly model in a yacht- 
ing cap, a jock strap and nothing else. 
No caption is necessary for the boys 
in purple underwear to get the mess- 
age in the photo of a downy-cheeked 
fad stepping out of his trousers. The 
pose is such a complete and absolute 
mockery of the bustiful beauty queen 
slipping out of her bikini for one of 
the girly mags, that you just wouldn't 
believe it. 

And what could fae chummier than 
the trio of queens— bare-faced, bere- 
bottomed, all naked and a yard wide 
—poised for take-off on a mefloreyde? 
The essentials of manhood (this is 
manhood?) are hidden behind the 
bike's handlebars, except for one silly 
swish who has his bidders foefofimd © 
pair of leather cycSe gloves„ 

You might say motorcycling is an 
athletic sport. So what could be heaU- 
thier than cycling in the raw to the 
boys with the mangled merak? 

You think this is disgusting? Gettairag 
slightly nauseated? 

Don't blame you a demm bit 
But . . . 

TRBM is possibly the woreS of sh© 
Hoi Don't think ifs easy to nominate ei 
candidate for "Worst" They are all 
s© completely wile., Sy? TRIM kr\ ! '} safl- 

isfied fust to feature a lot of muscle- 
bound melon heads in queer contor- 

TRIM readers get their kicks out of 
little boys. And the younger the better. 

These are the Lolitas of the lisping 

On page 4 and 5 of a recent issue 
is a dimpled, downy-cheeked darling 
who looks Hfce he ought to be reading 
comic books or doing his algebra 
homework instead of playing peek- 
a-boo with a towel a la Brigitte Bar- 

And the tousled teen-ager on page 
1 1 looks exactly like Tom Sawyer in 
a cowboy hat and sucking on a straw 
—except that his jeans are half un- 

The pose on page 12 is familiar. 
The pouting-lipped, heavy-eyed crea- 
ture shimmying out of a T-shirt so 
provocatively. You've seen that come- 
on hundreds of times in the girly 

Only this drooling doll is a fella 
(that's what they tell us, anyway!) 


If this one shot isn't enough to get 
the pansy's panting, don't despair, 
dearies. Six more B x 10 giossys are 
available for only 10 bucks — accord- 
ing to the ad on page 43 which pro- 
mises: "These studies are highest 
quality prints on the finest papers 
available for the art collections of the 
most discerning collectors, are lovers 
and artists." 

And this is the big payoff. 

The dirty, stinking pay off. 

What the photos promise, the ads 

If you aren't urping already, hold 

The backs of these magazines are 
crammed with passionate proposi- 
tions. Under the outright phony guise 
of "art," "culture," and "decoration" 
the muck merchants are offering 
photographed flesh for sale. 

Don't breathe too hard, boys, you'll 
wear out the picture! 

Catalogs, 4 x 5's, 8 x 10's, movies, 
playlets — in short, the works. 

And most shocking of all . . . 

Catalog 17 featuring "21 poses" 
of Ernie Niemi — "14 years young." 

Imagine! Only 14 years old! 

A slender, curly-haired blond kid— 
and, somehow, someone has htm 
hooked into the most sickening, sordid, 
sex-stinking cesspool in history! 

You'd think these bare-bottomed 
lads might be the slightest bit embar- 
rassed to be trapped by the camera 
in such passion-packed poses. 

Not on your life! 

Most of them wear expressions of 
sheer bliss. Some of them look like 

they've just been caught licking o 


let's see. What have we here in 
MANUAL'S May issue? Here is this 
guy flinging around a fish net in 
hip-high leather boots and bare bot- 

The uniform is guaranteed to de- 
light every sado-masochist in the 
country— those creeps that like to pun- 
ish their victims with indescribable 
devices to achieve their sex-mad gra- 

The guy may be angling, all right- 
but not for trout. This is fishing? 

MAN-IFIQUE features the interna- 
tional limp wrist set— exotic queens 
from around the world with plucked 
eyebrows and flaring nostrils. "Art" 
is the come-on. 

By art, the editors must be referring 
to such painting as the reprint of the 
jacket cover for the well-known "Gio- 
vanni's Room," featuring two panting 
pansys with a bottle of booze on the 
table and a mussed up mattress in 
the background. 

The orgiastic photos in MAN-IFIQUE 
would put Jayne Mansfield to shame 
for sheer grace and provocation— or 
even Joe Mansfield, whoever he is. 
But the real art wotk is in the pen- 
cilled-in g-string supplied by the edi- 
tors to hide a few little incidentals 
that might otherwise keep these 
ghastly publications out of the market. 

One French lad is shown sprawled 
on the grass in a hairdo he must 
have filched from Brigitte Bardot. 
Another muscled cutie wears a ribbon 
of netting around his loins above a 
caption, "Please, Please, Don't Miss 


But the dimpled darlings of MAN- 
IFIQUE are only the sample, the lure 
to get the swishy-swashy set to send 
for "24 uninhibited and very gay 
studies in home, studio and shower! 
Only $5 air mail." 

How the hell this garbage gets 
through the mail without setting half- 
a-dozen post offices on fire, we'll 
never know. 

But someone must be lapping up 
"art" like "The Thieving Cowboy/' a 
masterpiece MAN-IFIQUE offers on 
page 36. Here is a sizzling scene of 
leather boots and brass-studded jac- 
kets flying open over bare chests- 
boys abusing boys in the most sordid 

And what about the guy on Page 
14 of FIZEEK. His g-string hides the 
very, very essentials of his physique 
and leaves nothing to the imagination 
with its raw display of pubic hair, 

"Appealing" is the magazine's cap- 

tion for the passionate pansy stretched 
across the floor wearing nothing bufc 
a tatoo that says "Mom." It is a pose 
calculated to excite the lisping lads 
to drop their lingerie in sheer delight. 
And the same simpering sweetie is 
shown two pages later, hugging a 

The swish set even has its bubble 
bath queens— including one long- 
haired doll with a spit curl on his 
cheek. Instead of bubbles, however, 
the freak is smeared with lather from 
chest to where the bathtub censors 
the view. 

Turn to page 65 of FIZEEK and you 
might think you've spotted Debbie 
Reynolds in the raw. Wow! Well, raw 
it is but it isn't Debbie. Look a little 
closer at the wasp-waist lovely in 
the sailor hat and you'll see "she" 
is a "he" or whatever they call "if— 
poised gracefully on a ladder, foot 
arched like something right out of a 
girly magazine. 

Only FIZEEK isn't content just to teN 
a little "fairy" tale. 

It has a very special message for 
another species of sicknik. The mess- 
age bearer is a naked he-man poised 
with a horsewhip— more food for the 
very special pervert who loves to be 
beaten and punished as he crawls on 
his knees toward the delight of the 

Horsewhips are child's play for PHY- 
SIQUE PICTORIAL. Boots and swords 
are the playthings here. And the 
models must be bored with g-stringe 
because they turn up with those es- 
sential areas hidden behind big red 
valentines or chrome hub caps. 

The cover is your first clue— it fea- 
tures a quivering queer leaping ouit 
of a cellophane-wrapped Christmas 
package, a sprig of mistletoe dang- 
ling from his g-string. 

PHYSIQUE PICTORIAL features lurid 
stills copped from its own home 
movies and coyly confesses thait 
"Jewel Thief/' a sin-ematic master- 
piece of prancing pansys in outlarc- 
dish getup complete with handcuffs 
and chains, is "our worst picture to 

Page 9 shows a naughty, nutty ess- 
erpt of "Muscles from Outer Space/" 
a tug-and-tussle muscle bit. If the 

model's get-up is any sample, them 
Fags from Mars will be flying around 
space with radio speakers for their 
G-sfrings— and a little knob right stra 
the middle. 

bathtub and wrinkled sheets-— yards 

The rag reeks of Oueersvilie— cudd- 
ling sailors, wacky wrestling duos, 
bull whips, chains, cozy kitchen 
scenes, camaraderie in the shower and 
{Continued on Page 64} 

How to'take charge' 
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and yards of wrinkled sheets. 

/The brazen come-out-into-the-open 
of these "Third Sex Boys" is absolutely 
alarming. As long as the homos were 
restricted to their own inner circle it 
was one thing. 

But now that they promote their 
strange sex-mad orgies openly in the 
fantastic pictures, ads and comments 
of these perverted pictorials, the 
question arises— 



Apparently there is no limit. 

Homosexuals no longer hide their 
"otherness" as they used to before 
World War II. During the last 12 01 
15 years, they have come out into the 
open, and now they actually par- 
ade their "affliction," responding to 
. the traditional hostility of the outside 
world with a truculent, defiant, ag- 
gressive antagonism of their own. 

Homosexuals are banded together 
in their own secret societies and fra- 
ternal orders. They have formed an 
underground movement, a defense 
association. They nave literary and 
artistic cliques, and even their own 
vigilante groups, which are waging 
a spirited campaign against the 

How bold they have become in 
flaunting their "oneness", as they call 
it, is shown by the fact that homo- 
sexuals are now publishing their own 
guides, in which they list various or- 
ganizations and publications. Any- 
body interested in becoming a "homo- 
joiner" can obtain a copy of the guide 
for $3 and learn from it all the places 
to which he can take his perverted 
passion, with mutual satisfaction 

This bold display of homosexuality 
is called "camp," a word used both 
as a noun and verb. The leader is 
called "queen," while an older de- 
viate is called "mother." 

Those who go in for wearing the 
clothing of the opposite sex "go in 
drag" and stage their own "drag 
parties." They call lesbians "dikes," 
and the aggressive one of a lesbian 
pair "bull-dike" or "butch." 

The non-homosexual majority are 
called "straights" or "squares." The 
homos themselves are sensitive about 
what they are called. They dislike the 
words "homo," "fairy," "fag," 
"nance," "fruit," "pansy," "queer," 
and others by which a hostile world 
refers to them. 

They call themselves "gay," using 
the word as an adjective, also as a 
noun. In their own cockeyed lingo 
"he" means "she," and "she" means 
"he," to further accentuate the nega- 
tive In their mtxed-up world. 

In farmer days, homos not only 
tried to shrink like violets, but also 
tried to mask or suppress the outside 
marks which gave them away as 
homosexuals. This has changed, too, 
and today a majority of homos have 
no qualms about displaying their ob- 
viously "different" outward character- 

They display obvious characteristics 
to make themselves known to other 
homos and to attract their attention. 

Today's homosexual fraternity has 
become a sort of missionary society, 
in which practicing homos literally 
encourage their latent brethren to join 
the big club. 

The purpose of their recruiting cam- 
paign is the belief that the more peo- 
ple there are who do as they do, the 
better off they themselves will be. 
Their hangouts are now not only 
places where they themselves can 
congregate, but breeding grounds for 
more and more homosexuality. 

They are out to infiltrate all-male 
institutions like the Army, Navy, and 
boys' schools, and they deliberately 
ensnare "candidates" to join the fra- 
ternity. Decoys are widespread in 
these places, where "mission" is to 
get a borderline case into the frater- 
nity, by seducing him and forcing him 
to join once he has been compro- 

The scouts even try to initiate "nor- 
mal" people into the rites of homo- 
sexuality. Formerly, homosexual prac- 
tices represented a scourge confined 
to those who happened to be homos 
themselves, today it is far more than 
just a perversion. 


Homos represent special problems 
in Las Vegas (where, of all VD cases 
treated at the city clinic in a single 
year, 75% turned out to be homosex- 
uals!}, in New York City, Philadelphia, 
Detroit and Atlanta, Georgia. New 
York City is now estimated to harbor 
between 100,000 and half a million 
deviates, and other cities have a pro- 
portionate percentage. 

There are no valid statistics to show 
the influence of increased homosex- 
uality on increased crime rates. But 
police authorities of Los Angeles and 
San Francisco see a definite connec- 
tion between the two. 

Among others, three unsolved mur- 
ders in a period of only four months 
in New York City can definitely be 
traced to a congregation of homos 
along a strip of Third Avenue, from 
45th Street to 57th Street known as 
"Lost Weekend Avenue." 

These are the homosexual prosti° 
tutes who now roam certain city streets 
and populate the parks around mid- 

night when the gay ser goes on lis 
nocturnal binge. 

In New York City, whole sections 
of the town are "taken over" by the 
homos in the wee hours of the morn- 
ing. Hundreds of "fags" can be seen 
soliciting along the gay stretch from 
Columbus Circle up Central Park Wesit 
to 72nd Street. They sit, in spring 
and summer, on the benches, singly 
or in groups, giggling and waiting 
hopefully. They usually adopt the 
dark side of the street as their own 

Further downtown, in Greenwich 
Village, more hordes of queers can 
be found, the sophisticated among 
them roaming up Second and Third 
Avenues and visiting the plush bistros. 

The sight is not a pleasant one,, 
but cops often look the other way. 
They don't want to become involved. 
Yet, many of these night-prowling 
homos are blatantly made up with 
lipstick, rouge and powder! Occa- 
sionally the cops stage raids, butt 
soon thereafter the fags are back 

One of the most degraded areas in 
New York City is the block on 42nd 
Street between Broadway and 8th 
Avenue. This is the hunting ground 
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Here you can find kids between 12 
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heavily plastered with rouge and lip- 
stick, hanging around the neon-span- 
gled movie houses, waiting to be 
picked up by perverts. "Dressed to 
kill," these misguided youngsters will 
invest in the price of a movie in order 
to prowl from seat to seat in search of 
a customer. Usually they are loaded 
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CUT ! 

OUT ! 
AND 1 

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NO. 20-R 

(Sec. 34.9, P.L&R.) 

Washington, D.C. 



O EZ D«pt. 1KW6 

3939 Wisconsin Ave. 

How to f take charge" 
of a nighly-paid job 

fee train 

at heme 

with real 



Magazine Scanning 
and Editing 

Are you interested in a better job, big money and 
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yourself? Then why not consider a career as 
mechanic or technician in the Magazine Scanning 
and Editing Industry! 

You see, old magazine scanning is now America's 
finest opportunity field. The government reports 
that during the past 12 years, production in- 
creased 400%. No other industry did better! The 
fact is, 8,200,000 domestic and industrial units 
are produced annually. Already 150,000,000 are 
m use. Experts say that 20,000 technicians must 
be trained each year to match industry growth! 
You can qualify for a No-pay job. How? Train 
8t home in spare time. The CTI method is easy, 
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